UC-NRLF 


Ebb    =150 


m 


GIFT  OF 


MODERN  BRITISH 
POETRY 


EDITED  BY 

LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

Author  of  ' l  Challenge ,  * '  * l  Including  Horace,  * 
4 '  Modern  American  Poetry , ' '  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
)URT,  BRACE  AND  COMPANY 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,    I92O,   BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE   AND   HOWE,    INC. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS   .  1A-P 

I*-*'  L  * 

FOR  permission  to  reprint  the  material  in  this  volume, 
the  editor  wishes,  first  of  all,  to  acknowledge  his  debt  to 
those  poets  whose  co-operation  has  been  of  such  assistance 
not  only  in  finally  determining  upon  the  choice  of  their 
poems,  but  in  collecting  dates,  biographical  data,  etc. 
Secondly,  he  wishes  to  thank  the  publishers,  most  of 
whom  are  holders  of  the  copyrights.  The  latter  indebted- 
ness is  specifically  acknowledged  to : 

DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE   &   COMPANY   and    A.   P.   WATT  &   SON — 

For  "  The  Return  "  from  The  Five  Nations  and  for  "  An 
Astrologer's  Song  "  from  Rewards  and  Fairies  by  Rudyard 
Kipling.  Thanks  also  are  due  to  Mr.  Kipling  himself  for 
personal  permission  to  reprint  these  poems. 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY  and  MARTIN  SECKER — 

For  the  poem  from  Collected  Poems  by  James  Elroy  Flecker. 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY — 

For  the  poems  from  The  Old  Huntsman,  Counter- Attack  and 
Picture  Show  by  Siegfried  Sassoon. 

FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY — 

For  poems  from  War  and  Love  by  Richard  Aldington  and 
The  Mountainy  Singer  by  Seosamh  MacCathmhaoil  (Joseph 
Campbell). 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY — 

For  poems  from  Peacock  Pie  and  The  Listeners  by  Walter 
de  la  Mare  and  Poems  by  Edward  Thomas. 

HOUGHTON    MlFFLIN    COMPANY — 

For  two  poems  from  Poems,  1908-1919,  by  John  Drinkwater, 
both  of  which  are  used  by  permission  of,   and  by  special 
arrangement  with,  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  the  author- 
ized publishers. 
B.  W.  HUEBSCH— 

For  the  selections  from  Chamber  Music  by  James  Joyce, 
Songs  to  Save  a  Soul  and  Before  Dawn  by  Irene  Ruther- 


4G4074 


Acknowledgments 

ford  McLeod,  A  mores,  Look!  We  Have  Come  Through!, 
and  New  Poems  by  D.  H.  Lawrence. 

ALFRED  A.  KNOPF — 

For  poems  from  The  Collected  Poems  of  William  H. 
Davies,  Fairies  and  Fusiliers  by  Robert  Graves,  The  Queen 
of  China  and  Other  Poems  by  Edward  Shanks,  and  Poems: 
First  Series  by  J.  C.  Squire. 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY — 

For  the  selections  from  Poems  by  G.  K.  Chesterton,  Ballads 
and  Songs  by  John  Davidson,  The  Collected  Poems  of 
Rupert  Brooke,  Admirals  All  by  Henry  Newbolt,  Herod 
and  Lyrics  and  Dramas  by  Stephen  Phillips,  The  Hope  of 
the  World  and  Other  Poems  by  William  Watson,  and  In 
Cap  and  Bells  by  Owen  Seaman. 

THE  LONDON  MERCURY — 

For  "Going  and  Staying"  by  Thomas  Hardy  and  "The 
House  That  Was  "  by  Laurence  Binyon. 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY — 

For  the  selections  from  Fires  and  Borderlands  and  Thor- 
oughfares by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson,  Poems  by  Ralph 
Hodgson,  the  sonnet  from  Good  Friday  and  Other  Poems 
by  John  Masefield,  and  the  passage  (entitled  in  this  volume 
"Rounding  the  Horn")  from  "Dauber"  in  The  Story  of 
a  Round-House  by  John  Masefield. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS — 

For  the  title  poem  from  In  Flanders  Fields  by  John 
McCrae. 

THE  POETRY  BOOKSHOP  (England)  — 

For  two  excerpts  from  Strange  Meetings  by  Harold  Monro 
and  for  the  poems  from  the  biennial  anthologies,  Georgian 
Poetry. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS— 
For  the  quotations  from  Poems  by  William  Ernest  Henley. 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY— 

For  the  poem  from  Ardours  and  Endurances  by  Robert 
Nichols. 

LONGMANS,   GREEN   &   Co.,   as  the   representatives   of  B.   H. 
BLACKWELL,  of  Oxford — 
For  a  poem  by  Edith  Sitwell  from  The  Mother. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY  xi 

THOMAS  HARDY  (1840-        ) 

In  Time  of  "  The  Breaking  of  Nations  "...  3 

Going   and   Staying 4 

The  Man  He  Killed 4 

ROBERT  BRIDGES  (1844-        ) 

Winter   Nightfall 5 

Nightingales 7 

ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY  (1844-1881) 

Ode 8 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY  (1849-1903) 

Invictus 10 

The  Blackbird 10 

A  Bowl  of  Roses n 

Before n 

Margaritae   Sorori 12 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  (1850-1894) 

Summer  Sun 13 

Winter-Time 14 

Romance 15 

Requiem 16 

ALICE  MEYNELL  (1850-        ) 

A  Thrush  Before  Dawn 16 

FIONA  MACLEOD  (William  Sharp)    (1855-1905) 

The  Valley  of  Silence 18 

The  Vision 19 

OSCAR  WILDE  (1856-1900) 

Requiescat 20 

Impression  du  Matin 21 

JOHN  DAVIDSON  (1857-1909) 

A  Ballad  of  Hell 22 

Imagination 26 

iii 


Contents 

PAGE 

WILLIAM  WATSON  (1858-        ) 

Ode  in  May 28 

Estrangement 30 

Song 3I 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON  (1859-1907) 

Daisy          ...... 32 

To  Olivia         ..»•».....  34 

An  Arab  Love-Song 35 

A.  E.  HOUSMAN  (1859-        ) 

Reveille 36 

When  I  Was  One-and-Twenty 37 

With  Rue  My  Heart  is  Laden 38 

To  An  Athlete  Dying  Young 38 

"Loveliest  of  Trees" 39 

DOUGLAS  HYDE  (1860-        ) 

I  Shall  Not  Die  for  Thee 40 

AMY  LEVY  (1861-1889) 

Epitaph 42 

In  the  Mile  End  Road 42 

KATHARINE  TYNAN  HINKSON  (1861-        ) 

Sheep  and  Lambs 43 

All-Souls 44 

OWEN  SEAMAN  (1861-        ) 

To  An  Old  Fogey 45 

Thomas  of  the  Light  Heart 47 

HENRY  NEWBOLT  (1862-        ) 

Drake's  Drum 49 

ARTHUR  SYMONS  (1865-        ) 

In  the  Wood  of  Finvara 50 

Modern   Beauty .  51 

WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS  (1865-        ) 

The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree 53 

The  Song  of  the  Old  Mother 53 

The  Cap  and  Bells 54 

An  Old  Song  Resung 55 

RUDYARD  KIPLING  (1865-        ) 

Gunga   Din 57 

The   Return 61 

The  Conundrum  of  the  Workshops  .       .       .       .       .  63 

An  Astrologer's  Song  .                        66 

IV 


Contents 

PAGE 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE  (1866-        ) 

A  Ballad  of  London 69 

Regret 70 

LIONEL  JOHNSON  (1867-1902) 

Mystic    and    Cavalier 71 

To   a   Traveller 73 

ERNEST  DOWSON  (1867-1900) 

To  One   in  Bedlam 74 

You    Would    Have    Understood    Me  75 

"A.  E."  (George  William  Russell)    (1867-         ) 

The    Great    Breath 76 

The   Unknown  God 77 

STEPHEN  PHILLIPS  (1868-1915) 

Fragment  from  "  Herod  " 78 

Beautiful  Lie  the  Dead 78 

A    Dream 79 

LAURENCE  BINYON  (1869-        ) 

A    Song 73 

The  House  That  Was 80 

ALFRED  DOUGLAS  (1870-        ) 

The  Green  River .       .  81 

T.  STURGE  MOORE  (1870-        ) 

The  Dying  Swan 82 

Silence   Sings 82 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES  (1870-        ) 

Days  Too  Short 84 

The    Moon 85 

The   Villain 85 

The    Example 86 

HILAIRE  BELLOC  (1870-        ) 

The   South    Country 87 

ANTHONY  C.  DEANE   (1870-        ) 

The  Ballad  of  the  Billycock 90 

A  Rustic  Song 9* 

J.  M.  SYNGE  (1871-1909) 

Beg-Inniah 95 

A  Translation  from  Petrarch 96 

To  the  Oaks  of  Glencree 96 

NORA  HOPPER  CHESSON  (1871-1906) 

A  Connaught  Lament •  97 


Contents 

PAGE 

EVA  GORE-BOOTH  (1872-        ) 

The  Waves   of  Breffny        ...  98 

Walls 99 

MOIRA  O'NEILL 

A  Broken  Song 59 

Beauty's    a    Flower 100 

JOHN  MCCRAE   (1872-1918) 

In   Flanders   Fields 101 

FORD  MADOX  HUEFFER  (1873-        ) 

Clair   de   Lune .  102 

There  Shall  Be  More  Joy 104 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE  (1873-        ) 

The  Listeners 106 

An    Epitaph 107 

Tired  Tim 108 

Old    Susan        .              108 

Nod 109 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON  (1874-        ) 

Lepanto in 

A  Prayer  in  Darkness 118 

The  Donkey 119 

WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON   (1878-        ) 

Prelude 120 

The    Stone 121 

Sight 124 

JOHN  MASEFIELD  (1878-        ) 

A   Consecration 126 

Sea-Fever 127 

Rounding   the    Horn 128 

The    Choice 131 

Sonnet 132 

LORD  DUNSANY  (1878-        ) 

Songs  from  an  Evil  Wood 133 

EDWARD  THOMAS  (1878-1917) 

If  I   Should  Ever  By  Chance 136 

Tall  Nettles 13? 

Fifty    Faggots 137 

Cock-Crow 138 

SEUMAS  O'SULLIVAN  (1879-        ) 

Praise *39 

vi 


Contents 


RALPH  HODGSON 

Eve 140 

Time,  You  Old  Gipsy  Man 142 

The    Birdcatcher 144 

The  Mystery 144 

HAROLD  MONRO  (1879-        ) 

The  Nightingale  Near  the  House 145 

Every  Thing 146 

Strange  Meetings 149 

T.  M.  KETTLE  (1880-1916) 

To  My  Daughter  Betty,  The  Gift  of  God     ...  150 

ALFRED  NOYES  (1880-        ) 

Sherwood 151 

The  Barrel-Organ 154 

Epilogue 161 

PADRAIC  COLUM  (1881-        ) 

The  Plougher 162 

An  Old  Woman  of  the  Roads 164 

JOSEPH  CAMPBELL  (Seosamh  MacCathmhaoll)    (1881-        ) 

I  Am  the  Mountainy  Singer 165 

The  Old  Woman 166 

JAMES  STEPHENS  (1882-        ) 

The    Shell !67 

What  Tomas  An  Buile  Said  In  a  Pub  ....  168 

To  the  Four  Courts,  Please 169 

JOHN  DRINKWATER  (1882-        ) 

Reciprocity 170 

A  Town  Window 170 

JAMES  JOYCE  (1882-        ) 

I  Hear  an  Army 171 

J.  C.  SQUIRE  (1884-        ) 

A  House 172 

LASCELLES  ABERCROMBIE   (1884-        ) 

From    "Vashti" 175 

Song 176 

JAMES  ELROY  FLECKER   (1884-1915) 

The  Old   Ships 178 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE  (1885-        ) 

People 180 

Piano 180 

vii 


Contents 

PAGE 

JOHN  FREEMAN  (1885-        ) 

Stone   Trees 181 

SHANE  LESLIE  (1886-        ) 

Fleet  Street 183 

The  Pater  of  the  Cannon 183 

FRANCES  CORNFORD  (1886-        ) 

Preexistence 184 

ANNA  WICKHAM 

The   Singer 186 

Reality 186 

Song 187 

SIEGFRIED  SASSOON   (1886-        ) 

To   Victory 189 

Dreamers 190 

The  Rear-Guard 190 

Thrushes 191 

Aftermath 192 

RUPERT  BROOKE  (1887-1915) 

The  Great  Lover 195 

Dust 198 

The    Soldier 200 

W.  M.  LETTS  (1887-        ) 

Grandeur 201 

The  Spires  of  Oxford 203 

FRANCIS  BRETT  YOUNG 

Lochanilaun 204 

F.  S.  FLINT 

London 205 

EDITH   SITWELL 

The  Web  of  Eros 206 

Interlude 207 

F.  W.  HARVEY  (1888-        ) 

The  Bugler 208 

T.  P.  CAMERON  WILSON  (1889-1918) 

Sportsmen    in   Paradise 209 

W.  J.  TURNER  (1889-        ) 

Romance 210 

PATRICK  MACGILL  (1890) 

By-the-Way 211 

Death  and  the  Fairies  .       .  ^     .       .       .       .       .       .     213 

viii 


Contents 

FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE  (1891-1917) 

An  Evening  in  England      ...,»,.  213 

Evening    Clouds 214 

IRENE  RUTHERFORD  McLnoD  (1891-        ) 

"  Is  Love,  then,  so  Simple  " 215 

Lone  Dog 215 

RICHARD  ALDINGTON  (1892-        ) 

Prelude 216 

Images 217 

At  the  British  Museum 218 

EDWARD  SHANKS  (1892-        ) 

Complaint 219 

OSBERT    SlTWELL    (1892-  ) 

The  Blind  Pedlar 220 

Progress 221 

ROBERT  NICHOLS  (1893-        ) 

Nearer 222 

CHARLES  H.  SORLEY  (1895-1915) 

Two   Sonnets 223 

To   Germany 225 

ROBERT  GRAVES  (1895-        ) 

It's  a  Queer  Time 226 

A  Pinch  of  Salt 227 

I  Wonder  What  It  Feels  Like  to  be  Drowned?  .       .  228 

The   Last  Post 229 

INDEX  OF  AUTHORS  AND  POEMS 231 


IX 


INTRODUCTORY 

The  New  Influences  and  Tendencies 

MERE  statistics  are  untrustworthy;  dates  are  even  less 
dependable.  But,  to  avoid  hairsplitting,  what  we  call 
"  modern  "  English  literature  may  be  said  to  date  from 
about  1885.  A  few  writers  who  are  decidedly  "of  the 
period  "  are,  as  a  matter  of  strict  chronology,  somewhat 
earlier.  But  the  chief  tendencies  may  be  divided  into 
seven  periods.  They  are  ( I )  The  decay  of  Victorianism 
and  the  growth  of  a  purely  decorative  art,  (2)  The  rise 
and  decline  of  the  /Esthetic  Philosophy,  (3)  The  muscu- 
lar influence  of  Henley,  (4)  The  Celtic  revival  in  Ire- 
land, (5)  Rudyard  Kipling  and  the  ascendency  of 
mechanism  in  art,  (6)  John  Masefield  and  the  return  of 
the  rhymed  narrative,  (7)  The  war  and  the  appear- 
ance of  "  The  Georgians."  It  may  be  interesting  to  trace 
I  these  developments  in  somewhat  greater  detail. 
THE  END  OF  VICTORIANISM 

The  age  commonly  called  Victorian  came  to  an  end 
about  1885.  It  was  an  age  distinguished  by  many  true 
idealists  and  many  false  ideals.  It  was,  in  spite  of  its 
notable  artists,  on  an  entirely  different  level  from  the 
epoch  which  had  preceded  it.  Its  poetry  was,  in  the  main, 
not  universal  but  parochial;  its  romanticism  was  gilt 
and  tinsel;  its  realism  was  as  cheap  as  its  showy  glass 

xi 


Introductory 

pendants,  red  plush,  parlor  chromos  and  antimacassars. 
The  period  was  full  of  a  pessimistic  resignation  (the  note 
popularized  by  Fitzgerald's  Omar  Khayyam)  and  a  kind 
of  cowardice  or  at  least  a  negation  which,  refusing  to  see 
any  glamour  in  the  actual  world,  turned  to  the  Middle 
Ages,  King  Arthur,  the  legend  of  Troy — to  the  suave 
surroundings  of  a  dream-world  instead  of  the  hard  con- 
tours of  actual  experience. 

At  its  worst,  it  was  a  period  of  smugness,  of  placid  and 
pious  sentimentality — epitomized  by  the  rhymed  sermons 
of  Martin  FarquharTupper,  whose  Proverbial  Philosophy 
was  devoured  with  all  its  cloying  and  indigestible  sweet- 
meats by  thousands.  The  same  tendency  is  apparent, 
though  far  less  objectionably,  in  the  moralizing  lays  of 
Lord  Thomas  Macaulay,  in  the  theatrically  emotionalized 
verses  of  Robert  Buchanan,  Edwin  Arnold  and  Sir  Lewis 
Morris — even  in  the  lesser  later  work  of  Alfred  Tenny- 
son. 

And,  without  Tupper's  emptiness  or  absurdities,  the 
outworn  platitudes  again  find  their  constant  lover  in 
Alfred  Austin,  Tennyson's  successor  as  poet  laureate. 
Austin  brought  the  laureateship,  which  had  been  held  by 
poets  like  Ben  Jonson,  Dryden,  Southey  and  Wordsworth, 
to  an  incredibly  low  level;  he  took  the  thinning  stream 
of  garrulous  poetic  conventionality,  reduced  it  to  the 
merest  trickle — and  diluted  it. 

The  poets  of  a  generation  before  this  time  were  fired 
with  such  ideas  as  freedom,  a  deep  and  burning  awe  of 
nature,  an  insatiable  hunger  for  truth  in  all  its  forms  and 
manifestations.  The  characteristic  poets  of  the  Victorian 

xii 


Introductory 

Era,  says  Max  Plowman,  "  wrote  under  the  dominance  of 
churchliness,  of  '  sweetness  and  light/  and  a  thousand 
lesser  theories  that  have  not  truth  but  comfort  for  their 
end." 

The  revolt  against  this  and  the  tawdriness  of  the  period 
had  already  begun ;  the  best  of  Victorianism  can  be  found 
not  in  men  who  were  typically  Victorian,  but  in  pioneers 
like  Browning  and  writers  like  Swinburne,  Rossetti, 
William  Morris,  who  were  completely  out  of  sympathy 
with  their  time. 

But  it  was  Oscar  Wilde  who  led  the  men  of  the  now 
famous  'nineties  toward  an  aesthetic  freedom,  to  champion 
a  beauty  whose  existence  was  its  "  own  excuse  for  being." 
Wilde's  was,  in  the  most  outspoken  manner,  the  first  use 
of  aestheticism  as  a  slogan ;  the  battle-cry  of  the  group  was 
actually  the  now  outworn  but  then  revolutionary  "  Art 
for  Art's  sake  "!  And,  so  sick  were  people  of  the  shoddy 
ornaments  and  drab  ugliness  of  the  immediate  past,  that 
the  slogan  won.  At  least,  temporarily. 

THE  RISE  AND  DECLINE  OF  THE  AESTHETIC    PHILOSOPHY 

The  Yellow  Book,  the  organ  of  a  group  of  young 
writers  and  artists,  appeared  (1894-97),  representing  a 
reasoned  and  intellectual  reaction,  mainly  suggested  and 
influenced  by  the  French.  The  group  of  contributors  was 
a  peculiarly  mixed  one  with  only  one  thing  in  common. 
And  that  was  a  conscious  effort  to  repudiate  the  sugary 
airs  and  prim  romantics  of  the  Victorian  Era. 

Almost  the  first  act  of  the  "  new  "  men  was  to  rouse 
and  outrage  their  immediate  predecessors.  This  end-of- 

xiii 


Introductory 

the-century  desire  to  shock,  which  was  so  strong  and 
natural  an  impulse,  still  has  a  place  of  its  own — especially 
as  an  antidote,  a  harsh  corrective.  Mid-Victorian  pro- 
priety and  self-satisfaction  crumbled  under  the  swift  and 
energetic  audacities  of  the  sensational  younger  authors 
and  artists ;  the  old  walls  fell ;  the  public,  once  so  apathetic 
to  belles  lettres,  was  more  than  attentive  to  every  phase 
of  literary  experimentation.  The  last  decade  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  was  so  tolerant  of  novelty  in  art  and 
ideas,  that  it  would  seem,  says  Holbrook  Jackson  in  his 
penetrative  summary,  The  Eight  ecu-Nineties,  "  as  though 
the  declining  century  wished  to  make  amends  for  several 
decades  of  artistic  monotony.  It  may  indeed  be  something 
more  than  a  coincidence  that  placed  this  decade  at  the 
close  of  a  century,  and  fin  de  siecle  may  have  been  at 
once  a  swan  song  and  a  death-bed  repentance." 

But  later  on,  the  movement  (if  such  it  may  be  called), 
surfeited  with  its  own  excesses,  fell  into  the  mere  poses 
of  revolt;  it  degenerated  into  a  half-hearted  defense  of 
artificialities. 

It  scarcely  needed  W.  S.  Gilbert  (in  Patience)  or 
Robert  Hichens  (in  The  Green  Carnation)  to  satirize 
its  distorted  attitudinizing.  It  strained  itself  to  death; 
it  became  its  own  burlesque  of  the  bizarre,  an  extrava- 
ganza of  extravagance.  "  The  period  "  (I  am  again  quot- 
ing Holbrook  Jackson)  "was  as  certainly  a  period  of 
decadence  as  it  was  a  period  of  renaissance.  The  de- 
cadence was  to  be  seen  in  a  perverse  and  finicking  glorifi- 
cation of  the  fine  arts  and  mere  artistic  virtuosity  on  the 
one  hand,  and  a  militant  commercial  movement  on  the 

xiv 


Introductory 

other.  .  .  .  The  eroticism  which  became  so  prevalent 
in  the  verse  of  many  of  the  younger  poets  was  minor 
because  it  was  little  more  than  a  pose — not  because  it 
was  erotic.  ...  It  was  a  passing  mood  which  gave  the 
poetry  of  the  hour  a  hothouse  fragrance ;  a  perfume  faint 
yet  unmistakable  and  strange." 

But  most  of  the  elegant  and  disillusioned  young  men 
overshot  their  mark.  Mere  health  reasserted  itself;  an 
inherent  repressed  vitality  sought  new  channels.  Arthur 
Symons  deserted  his  hectic  Muse,  Richard  Le  Gallienne 
abandoned  his  preciosity,  and  the  group  began  to  dis- 
integrate. The  aesthetic  philosophy  was  wearing  thin ;  it 
had  already  begun  to  fray  and  reveal  its  essential  shabbi- 
ness.  Wilde  himself  possessed  the  three  things  which 
he  said  the  English  would  never  forgive — youth,  power 
and  enthusiasm.  But  in  trying  to  make  an  exclusive  cult 
of  beauty,  Wilde  had  also  tried  to  make  it  evade  actuality ; 
he  urged  that  art  should  not,  in  any  sense,  be  a  part  of 
life  but  an  escape  from  it.  *  The  proper  school  to  learn 
art  in  is  not  Life— but  Art."  And  in  the  same  essay 
("The  Decay  of  Lying")  he  wrote,  "  All  bad  Art 
comes  from  returning  to  Life  and  Nature,  and  elevating 
them  into  ideals."  Elsewhere  he  said,  "  The  first  duty 
in  life  is  to  be  as  artificial  as  possible.  What  the  second 
duty  is  no  one  has  discovered." 

Such  a  cynical  and  decadent  philosophy  could  not  go 
unchallenged.  Its  artistocratic  blue-bloodedness  was 
bound  to  arouse  the  red  blood  of  common  reality.  This 
negative  attitude  received  its  answer  in  the  work  of  that 
yea-sayer,  W.  E.  Henley. 

xv 


Introductory 

WILLIAM    ERNEST    HENLEY 

Henley  repudiated  this  languid  asstheticism ;  he  scorned 
a  negative  art  which  was  out  of  touch  with  the  world. 
His  was  a  large  and  sweeping  affirmation.  He  felt  that 
mere  existence  was  glorious ;  life  was  coarse,  difficult,  often 
dangerous  and  dirty,  but  splendid  at  the  heart.  Art,  he 
knew,  could  not  be  separated  from  the  dreams  and  hungers 
of  man ;  it  could  not  flourish  only  on  its  own  essences  or 
technical  accomplishments.  To  live,  poetry  would  have  to 
share  the  fears,  angers,  hopes  and  struggles  of  the  prosaic 
world.  And  so  Henley  came  like  a  swift  salt  breeze 
blowing  through  a  perfumed  and  heavily-screened  studio. 
He  sang  loudly  (sometimes  even  too  loudly)  of  the  joy 
of  living  and  the  courage  of  the  "unconquerable  soul.*' 
He  was  a  powerful  influence  not  only  as  a  poet  but  as  a 
critic  and  editor.  In  the  latter  capacity  he  gathered  about 
him  such  men  as  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling, Thomas  Hardy,  H.  G.  Wells,  W.  B.  Yeats,  T.  E. 
Brown,  J.  M.  Barrie.  None  of  these  men  were  his  dis- 
ciples, but  none  of  them  came  into  contact  with  him 
without  being  influenced  in  some  way  by  his  sharp  and 
positive  personality.  A  pioneer  and  something  of  a 
prophet,  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  champion  the  paintings 
of  Whistler  and  to  proclaim  the  genius  of  the  sculptor 
Rodin. 

If  at  times  Henley's  verse  is  imperialistic,  over-muscu- 
lar and  strident,  his  noisy  moments  are  redeemed  not  only 
by  his  delicate  lyrics  but  by  his  passionate  enthusiasm  for 
nobility  in  whatever  cause  it  was  joined.  He  never  dis- 

xvi 


Introductory 

dained  the  actual  world  in  any  of  its  moods — bus-drivers, 
hospital  interiors,  scrubwomen,  a  panting  train,  the 
squalor  of  London's  alleys,  all  found  a  voice  in  his  lines 
— and  his  later  work  contains  more  than  a  hint  of  the 
delight  in  science  and  machinery  which  was  later  to  be 
sounded  more  fully  in  the  work  of  Rudyard  Kipling. 

THE  CELTIC  REVIVAL   AND   J.    M.    SYNGE 

In  1889,  William  Butler  Yeats  published  his  Wander- 
ings of  Oisin;  in  the  same  year  Douglas  Hyde,  the 
scholar  and  folk-lorist,  brought  out  his  Book  of  Gaelic 
Stories. 

The  revival  of  Gaelic  and  the  renascence  of  Irish  litera- 
ture may  be  said  to  date  from  the  publication  of  those  two 
books.  The  fundamental  idea  of  both  men  and  their  fol- 
lowers was  the  same.  It  was  to  create  a  literature  which 
would  express  the  national  consciousness  of  Ireland 
through  a  purely  national  art.  They  began  to  reflect  the 
strange  background  of  dreams,  politics,  suffering  and  hero- 
ism that  is  immortally  Irish.  This  community  of  fellow- 
ship and  aims  is  to  be  found  in  the  varied  but  allied  work 
of  William  Butler  Yeats,  "  A.  E."  (George  W.  Russell), 
Moira  O'Neill,  Lionel  Johnson,  Katharine  Tynan, 
Padraic  Colum  and  others.  The  first  fervor  gone,  a 
short  period  of  dullness  set  in.  After  reanimating  the  old 
myths,  surcharging  the  legendary  heroes  with  a  new  sig- 
nificance, it  seemed  for  a  while  that  the  movement  would 
lose  itself  in  a  literary  mysticism.  But  an  increasing 
concern  with  the  peasant,  the  migratory  laborer,  the 
tramp,  followed;  an  interest  that  was  something  of  a  re- 

xvii 


Introductory 

action  against  the  influence  of  Yeats  and  his  mystic  other- 
worldliness.  And,  in  1904,  the  Celtic  Revival  reached  its 
height  with  John  Millington  Synge,  who  was  not  only 
the  greatest  dramatist  of  the  Irish  Theatre,  but  (to  quote 
such  contrary  critics  as  George  Moore  and  Harold 
Williams)  "  one  of  the  greatest  dramatists  who  has 
written  in  English."  Synge 's  poetry,  brusque  and  all  too 
small  in  quantity,  was  a  minor  occupation  with  him  and 
yet  the  quality  and  power  of  it  is  unmistakable.  Its 
content  is  never  great  but  the  raw  vigor  in  it  was  to 
serve  as  a  bold  banner — a  sort  of  a  brilliant  Jolly  Roger 
— for  the  younger  men  of  the  following  period.  It  was 
not  only  this  dramatist's  brief  verses  and  his  intensely 
musical  prose  but  his  sharp  prefaces  that  were  to  exercise 
such  an  influence. 

In  the  notable  introduction  to  the  Playboy  of  the  West- 
ern World,  Synge  declared,  "  When  I  was  writing  The 
Shadow  of  the  Glen  some  years  ago,  I  got  more  aid  than 
any  learning  could  have  given  me  from  a  chink  in  the 
floor  of  the  old  Wicklow  house  where  I  was  staying,  that 
let  me  hear  what  was  being  said  by  the  servant  girls  in 
the  kitchen.  This  matter  is,  I  think,  of  some  importance ; 
for  in  countries  where  the  imagination  of  the  people,  and 
the  language  they  use,  is  rich  and  living,  it  is  possible 
for  a  writer  to  be  rich  and  copious  in  his  words — and  at 
the  same  time  to  give  the  reality  which  is  at  the  root  of 
all  poetry,  in  a  natural  and  comprehensive  form."  This 
quotation  explains  his  idiom,  possibly  the  sharpest-flavored 
and  most  vivid  in  modern  literature. 

As  to  Synge's  poetic  power,  it  is  unquestionably  great- 
xviii 


I 


Introductory 

est  in  his  plays.  In  The  Well  of  the  Saints,  The  Playboy 
of  the  Western  World  and  Riders  to  the  Sea  there  are 
more  poignance,  beauty  of  form  and  richness  of  language 
than  in  any  piece  of  dramatic  writing  since  Elizabethan 
times.  Yeats,  when  he  first  heard  Synge's  early  one-act 
play,  The  Shadow  of  the  Glen,  is  said  to  have  exclaimed 
"  Euripides."  A  half  year  later  when  Synge  read  him 
Riders  to  the  Sea,  Yeats  again  confined  his  enthusiasm  to 
a  single  word: — "/Eschylus!"  Years  have  shown  that 
Yeats's  appreciation  was  not  as  exaggerated  as  many  might 
suppose. 

But  although  Synge's  poetry  was  not  his  major  con- 
cern, numbering  only  twenty-four  original  pieces  and 
eighteen  translations,  it  had  a  surprising  effect  upon  his 
followers.  It  marked  a  point  of  departure,  a  reaction 
against  both  the  too-polished  and  over-rhetorical  verse  of 
his  immediate  predecessors  and  the  dehumanized  mysticism 
of  many  of  his  associates.  In  that  memorable  preface  to 
his  Poems  he  wrote  what  was  a  slogan,  a  manifesto  and 
at  the  same  time  a  classic  credo  for  all  that  we  call  the 
"  new  "  poetry.  "  I  have  often  thought,"  it  begins,  "  that 
at  the  side  of  poetic  diction,  which  everyone  condemns, 
modern  verse  contains  a  great  deal  of  poetic  material, 
using  'poetic*  in  the  same  special  sense.  The  poetry  of 
exaltation  will  be  always  the  highest;  but  when  men  lose 
their  poetic  feeling  for  ordinary  life  and  cannot  write 
poetry  of  ordinary  things,  their  exalted  poetry  is  likely  to 
lose  its  strength  of  exaltation  in  the  way  that  men  cease 
to  build  beautiful  churches  when  they  have  lost  happiness 
in  building  shops.  .  .  .  Even  if  we  grant  that  exalted 

xix 


Introductory 

poetry  can  be  kept  successfully  by  itself,  the  strong  things 
of  life  are  needed  in  poetry  also,  to  show  that  what  is 
exalted  or  tender  is  not  made  by  feeble  blood." 

RUDYARD    KIPLING 

New  tendencies  are  contagious.  But  they  also  disclose 
themselves  simultaneously  in  places  and  people  where 
there  has  been  no  point  of  contact.  Even  before  Synge 
published  his  proofs  of  the  keen  poetry  in  everyday  life, 
Kipling  was  illuminating,  in  a  totally  different  manner, 
the  wealth  of  poetic  material  in  things  hitherto  regarded 
as  too  commonplace  for  poetry.  Before  literary  England 
had  quite  recovered  from  its  surfeit  of  Victorian  priggish- 
ness  and  pre-Raphaelite  delicacy,  Kipling  came  along  with 
high  spirits  and  a  great  tide  of  life,  sweeping  all  before 
him.  An  obscure  Anglo-Indian  journalist,  the  publication 
of  his  Barrack-room  Ballads  in  1892  brought  him  sudden 
notice.  By  1895  he  was  internationally  famous.  Brush- 
ing over  the  pallid  attempts  to  revive  a  pallid  past,  he 
rode  triumphantly  on  a  wave  of  buoyant  and  sometimes 
brutal  joy  in  the  present.  Kipling  gloried  in  the  material 
world ;  he  did  more — he  glorified  it.  He  pierced  the 
coarse  exteriors  of  seemingly  prosaic  things — things  like 
machinery,  bridge-building,  cockney  soldiers,  slang,  steam, 
the  dirty  by-products  of  science  (witness  "  M'Andrews 
Hymn"  and  "  The  Bell  Buoy") — and  uncovered  their 
hidden  glamour.  "  Romance  is  gone,"  sighed  most  of  his 
contemporaries, 

".    .    .   and  all  unseen 
Romance  brought  up  the  nine-fifteen." 
xx 


Introductory 

That  sentence  (from  his  poem  "  The  King")  contains 
the  key  to  the  manner  in  which  the  author  of  The  Five 
Nations  helped  to  rejuvenate  English  verse. 

Kipling,  with  his  perception  of  ordinary  people  in  terms 
of  ordinary  life,  was  one  of  the  strongest  links  between 
the  Wordsworth-Browning  era  and  the  latest  apostles  of 
vigor,  beginning  with  Masefield.  There  are  occasional 
and  serious  defects  in  Kipling's  work — particularly  in  his 
more  facile  poetry ;  he  falls  into  a  journalistic  ease  that 
tends  to  turn  into  jingle;  he  is  fond  of  a  militaristic  drum- 
banging  that  is  as  blatant  as  the  insularity  he  condemns. 
But  a  burning,  if  sometimes  too  simple  faith,  shines 
through  his  achievements.  His  best  work  reveals  an  in- 
tensity that  crystallizes  into  beauty  what  was  originally 
tawdry,  that  lifts  the  vulgar  and  incidental  to  the  place 
of  the  universal. 

JOHN    MASEFIELD 

All  art  is  a  twofold  revivifying — a  recreation  of  subject 
and  a  reanimating  of  form.  And  poetry  becomes  perenni- 
ally "  new  "  by  returning  to  the  old — with  a  different 
consciousness,  a  greater  awareness.  In  1911,  when  art  was 
again  searching  for  novelty,  John  Masefield  created  some- 
thing startling  and  new  by  going  back  to  1385  and  The 
Canterbury  Pilgrims.  Employing  both  the  Chaucerian 
model  and  a  form  similar  to  the  practically  forgotten 
Byronic  stanza,  Masefield  wrote  in  rapid  succession,  The 
Everlasting  Mercy  (1911),  The  Widow  in  the  Bye 
Street  (1912),  Dauber  (1912),  The  Daffodil  Fields 
(1913) — four  astonishing  rhymed  narratives  and  four 

xxi 


Introductory 

of  the  most  remarkable  poems  of  our  generation.  Ex- 
pressive of  every  rugged  phase  of  life,  these  poems,  unit- 
ing old  and  new  manners,  responded  to  Synge's  proclama- 
tion that  "  the  strong  things  of  life  are  needed  in  poetry 
also  .  .  .  and  it  may  almost  be  said  that  before  verse 
can  be  human  again  it  must  be  brutal." 

Masefield  brought  back  to  poetry  that  mixture  of 
beauty  and  brutality  which  is  its  most  human  and  en- 
during quality.  He  brought  back  that  rich  and  almost 
vulgar  vividness  which  is  the  very  life-blood  of  Chaucer, 
of  Shakespeare,  of  Burns,  of  Villon,  of  Heine — and  of 
all  those  who  were  not  only  great  artists  but  great 
humanists.  As  a  purely  descriptive  poet,  he  can  take  his 
place  with  the  masters  of  sea  and  landscape.  As  an  imag- 
inative realist,  he  showed  those  who  were  stumbling  from 
one  wild  eccentricity  to  another  to  thrill  them,  that  they 
themselves  were  wilder,  stranger,  far  more  thrilling  than 
anything  in  the  world — or  out  of  it.  Few  things  in  con- 
temporary poetry  are  as  powerful  as  the  regeneration  of 
Saul  Kane  (in  The  Everlasting  Mercy)  or  the  story  of 
Dauber,  the  tale  of  a  tragic  sea-voyage  and  a  dreaming 
youth  who  wanted  to  be  a  painter.  The  vigorous  descrip- 
tion of  rounding  Cape  Horn  in  the  latter  poem  is  superbly 
done,  a  masterpiece  in  itself.  Masefield's  later  volumes 
are  quieter  in  tone,  more  measured  in  technique;  there 
is  an  almost  religious  ring  to  many  of  his  Shakespearian 
sonnets.  But  the  swinging  surge  is  there,  a  passionate 
strength  that  leaps  through  all  his  work  from  Salt  Water 
Ballads  (1902)  to  Reynard  the  Fox  (1919). 


xxu 


Introductory 

"  THE  GEORGIANS  "  AND  THE  YOUNGER  MEN 

There  is  no  sharp  statistical  line  of  demarcation  be- 
tween Masefield  and  the  younger  men.  Although  sev- 
eral of  them  owe  much  to  him,  most  of  the  younger  poets 
speak  in  accents  of  their  own.  W.  W.  Gibson  had 
already  reinforced  the  "  return  to  actuality  "  by  turning 
from  his  first  preoccupation  with  shining  knights,  fault- 
less queens,  ladies  in  distress  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of 
hackneyed  mediaeval  romances,  to  write  about  ferrymen, 
berry-pickers,  stone-cutters,  farmers,  printers,  circus-men, 
carpenters — dramatizing  (though  sometimes  theatricaliz- 
ing) the  primitive  emotions  of  uncultured  and  ordinary 
people  in  Livelihood,  Daily  Bread  and  JFires.  This  in- 
tensity had  been  asking  new  questions.  It  found  its 
answers  in  the  war;  repressed  emotionalism  discovered  a 
new  outlet.  One  hears  its  echoes  in  the  younger  poets 
like  Siegfried  Sassoon,  with  his  poignant  and  unspar- 
ing poems  of  conflict;  in  Robert  Graves,  who  reflects  it 
in  a  lighter  and  more  fantastic  vein;  in  James  Stephens, 
whose  wild  ingenuities  are  redolent  of  the  soil.  And  it 
finds  its  corresponding  opposite  in  the  limpid  and  un- 
perturbed loveliness  of  Ralph  Hodgson;  in  the  ghostly 
magic  and  the  nursery-rhyme  whimsicality  of  Walter 
de  la  Mare;  in  the  quiet  and  delicate  lyrics  of  W.  H. 
Davies.  Among  the  others,  the  brilliant  G.  K.  Chester- 
ton, the  facile  Alfred  Noyes,  the  romantic  Rupert  Brooke 
(who  owes  less  to  Masefield  and  his  immediate  predeces- 
sors than  he  does  to  the  passionately  intellectual  Donne), 
the  introspective  D.  H.  Lawrence  and  the  versatile  J.  C, 

xxiii 


Introductory 

Squire,  are  perhaps  best  known  to  American  readers. 
All  of  the  poets  mentioned  in  the  foregoing  paragraph 
(with  the  exception  of  Noyes)  have  formed  themselves  in 
a  loose  group  called  "  The  Georgians/*  and  an  anthology 
of  their  best  work  has  appeared  every  two  years  since 
1913.  Masefield,  Lascelles  Abercrombie  and  John  Drink- 
water  are  also  listed  among  the  Georgian  poets.  When 
their  first  collection  appeared  in  March,  1913,  Henry 
Newbolt,  a  critic  as  well  as  poet,  wrote :  "  These  younger 
poets  have  no  temptation  to  be  false.  They  are  not  for 
making  something  '  pretty/  something  up  to  the  standard 
of  professional  patterns.  .  .  .  They  write  as  grown 
men  walk,  each  with  his  own  unconscious  stride  and  ges- 
ture. ...  In  short,  they  express  themselves  and  seem 
to  steer  without  an  effort  between  the  dangers  of  innova- 
tion and  reminiscence."  The  secret  of  this  success,  and 
for  that  matter,  the  success  of  the  greater  portion  of 
English  poetry,  is  not  an  exclusive  discovery  of  the 
Georgian  poets.  It  is  their  inheritance,  derived  from 
those  predecessors  who,  "  from  Wordsworth  and  Cole- 
ridge onward,  have  worked  for  the  assimilation  of  verse 
to  the  manner  and  accent  of  natural  speech."  In  its 
adaptability  no  less  than  in  its  vigor,  modern  English 
poetry  is  true  to  its  period — and  its  past. 

This  collection  is  obviously  a  companion  volume  to 
Modern  American  Poetry,  which,  in  its  restricted  com- 
pass, attempted  to  act  as  an  introduction  to  recent  native 
verse.  Modern  British  Poetry  covers  the  same  period 
(from  about  1870  to  1920),  follows  the  same  chrono- 

xxiv 


Introductory 

logical  scheme,  but  it  is  more  amplified  and  goes  into  far 
greater  detail  than  its  predecessor. 

The  two  volumes,  considered  together,  furnish  inter- 
esting contrasts;  they  reveal  certain  similarities  and  cer- 
tain strange  differences.  Broadly  speaking,  modern 
American  verse  is  sharp,  vigorously  experimental ;  full  of 
youth  and  its  occasional — and  natural — crudities.  Eng- 
lish verse  is  smoother,  more  matured  and,  molded  by 
centuries  of  literature,  richer  in  associations  and  surer 
in  artistry.  Where  the  American  output  is  often  rude, 
extremely  varied  and  uncoordinated  (being  the  expression 
of  partly  indigenous,  partly  naturalized  and  largely  un- 
assimilated  ideas,  emotions  and  races),  the  English  prod- 
uct is  formulated,  precise  and,  in  spite  of  its  fluctuations, 
true  to  its  past.  It  goes  back  to  traditions  as  old  as 
Chaucer  (witness  the  narratives  of  Masefield  and 
Gibson)  or  tendencies  as  classic  as  Drayton,  Herrick  and 
Blake — as  in  the  frank  lyrics  of  A.  E.  Housman,  the 
artless  1>  :icism  of  Ralph  Hodgson,  the  naif  wonder  of 
W.  H.  Davies.  And  if  English  poetry  may  be  com- 
pared to  a  broad  and  luxuriating  river  (while  American 
poetry  might  be  described  as  a  sudden  rush  of  uncon- 
nected mountain  torrents,  valley  streams  and  city  sluices), 
it  will  t''  inspiring  to  observe  how  its  course  has  been 
temporarily  deflected  in  the  last  forty  years;  how  it  has 
swung  away  from  one  tendency  toward  another;  and 
how,  for  all  its  bends  and  twists,  it  has  lost  neither  its 
strength  nor  its  nobility. 

L.  U. 

New  York  City. 
January,  1920. 

XXV 


MODERN  BRITISH  POETRY 


Thomas  Hardy 


Thomas  Hardy  was  born  in  1840,  and  has  for  years  been 
famous  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  as  a  writer  of  intense  and 
sombre  novels.  His  Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles  and  Jude  the 
Obscure  are  possibly  his  best  known,  although  his  W essex  Tales 
and  Life's  Little  Ironies  are  no  less  imposing. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  almost  sixty,  in  1898  to  be  precise, 
that  Hardy  abandoned  prose  and  challenged  attention  as  a  poet. 
The  Dynasts  r  a  drama  of  the  Napoleonic  Wars,  is  in  three 
parts,  nineteen  acts  and  one  hundred  and  thirty  scenes,  a 
massive  and  most  amazing  contribution  to  contemporary  art. 
It  is  the  apotheosis  of  Hardy  the  novelist.  Lascelles  Aber- 
crombie  calls  this  work,  which  is  partly  a  historical  play,  partly 
a  visionary  drama,  "  the  biggest  and  most  consistent  exhibition 
of  fatalism  in  literature."  While  its  powerful  simplicity  and 
tragic  impressiveness  overshadow  his  shorter  poems,  many  of 
his  terse  lyrics  reveal  the  same  vigor  and  impact  of  a  strong 
personality.  His  collected  poems  were  published  by  The  Mac- 
millan  Company  in  1919  and  reveal  another  phase  of  one  of 
the  greatest  living  writers  of  English. 


IN  TIME  OF  "THE  BREAKING  OF  NATIONS  " 

Only  a  man  harrowing  clods 

In  a  slow  silent  walk, 
With  an  old  horse  that  stumbles  and  nods 

Half  asleep  as  they  stalk. 

Only  thin  smoke  without  flame 

From  the  heaps  of  couch  grass: 
Yet  this  will  go  onward  the  same 

Though  Dynasties  pass. 
3 


Thomas  Hardy 

Yonder  a  maid  and  her  wight 

Come  whispering  by; 
War's  annals  will  fade  into  night 

Ere  their  story  die. 


GOING  AND  STAYING 

The  moving  sun-shapes  on  the  spray, 
The  sparkles  where  the  brook  was  flowing, 
Pink  faces,  plightings,  moonlit  May,— 
These  were  the  things  we  wished  would  stay ; 
But  they  were  going. 

Seasons  of  blankness  as  of  snow, 
The  silent  bleed  of  a  world  decaying, 
The  moan  of  multitudes  in  woe, — 
These  were  the  things  we  wished  would  go; 
But  they  were  staying. 

THE  MAN  HE  KILLED 
(From  "The  Dynasts") 

"  Had  he  and  I  but  met 

By  some  old  ancient  inn, 
We  should  have  sat  us  down  to  wet 
Right  many  a  nipperkin ! 

"  But  ranged  as  infantry, 

And  staring  face  to  face, 
I  shot  at  him  as  he  at  me, 

And  killed  him  in  his  place. 
4 


Thomas  Hardy 

"  I  shot  him  dead  because — 

Because  he  was  my  foe, 
Just  so:  my  foe  of  course  he  was; 
That's  clear  enough;  although 

"  He  thought  he'd  list,  perhaps, 

Off-hand  like — just  as  I — 
Was  out  of  work — had  sold  his  traps- 
No  other  reason  why. 

"  Yes;  quaint  and  curious  war  is! 

You  shoot  a  fellow  down 
You'd  treat,  if  met  where  any  bar  is, 
Or  help  to  half-a-crown." 


Robert  Bridges 

Robert  Bridges  was  born  in  1844  and  educated  at  Eton  and 
Corpus  Christi  College,  Oxford.  After  traveling  extensively, 
he  studied  medicine  in  London  and  practiced  until  1882.  Most 
of  his  poems,  like  his  occasional  plays,  are  classical  in  tone  as 
well  as  treatment.  He  was  appointed  poet  laureate  in  1913, 
following  Alfred  Austin.  His  command  of  the  secrets  of  rhythm 
and  a  subtle  versification  give  his  lines  a  firm  delicacy  and 
beauty  of  pattern. 


WINTER  NIGHTFALL 

The  day  begins  to  droop, — 
Its  course  is  done: 

But  nothing  tells  the  place 

Of  the  setting  sun. 

5 


Robert  Bridges 

The  hazy  darkness  deepens, 

And  up  the  lane 
You  may  hear,  but  cannot  see, 

The  homing  wain. 

An  engine  pants  and  hums 
In  the  farm  hard  by: 

Its  lowering  smoke  is  lost 
In  the  lowering  sky. 

The  soaking  branches  drip, 
And  all  night  through 

The  dropping  will  not  cease 
In  the  avenue. 

A  tall  man  there  in  the  house 
Must  keep  his  chair: 

He  knows  he  will  never  again 
Breathe  the  spring  air: 

His  heart  is  worn  with  work; 

He  is  giddy  and  sick 
If  he  rise  to  go  as  far 

As  the  nearest  rick: 

He  thinks  of  his  morn  of  life, 
His  hale,  strong  years; 

And  braves  as  he  may  the  night 
Of  darkness  and  tears. 


Robert  Bridges 

NIGHTINGALES 

Beautiful  must  be  the  mountains  whence  ye  come, 

And  bright  in  the  fruitful  valleys  the  streams,  wherefrom 

Ye  learn  your  song: 

Where  are  those  starry  woods  ?    O  might  I  wander  there, 
Among  the  flowers,  which  in  that  heavenly  air 

Bloom  the  year  long! 

Nay,  barren  are  those  mountains  and  spent  the  streams : 
Our  song  is  the  voice  of  desire,  that  haunts  our  dreams, 

A  throe  of  the  heart, 

Whose  pining  visions  dim,  forbidden  hopes  profound, 
No  dying  cadence  nor  long  sigh  can  sound, 

For  all  our  art. 

Alone,  aloud  in  the  raptured  ear  of  men 

We  pour  our  dark  nocturnal  secret;  and  then, 

As  night  is  withdrawn 
From  these  sweet-springing  meads  and  bursting  boughs  of 

May, 

Dream,  while  the  innumerable  choir  of  day 
Welcome  the  dawn. 


Arthur  O'Shaughnessy 

The  Irish-English  singer,  Arthur  William  Edgar  O'Shaugh- 
nessy, was  born  in  London  in  1844.  He  was  connected,  for  a 
while,  with  the  British  Museum,  and  was  transferred  later  to 
the  Department  of  Natural  History.  His  first  literary  success, 
Epic  of  Women  (1870),  promised  a  brilliant  future  for  the 
young  poet,  a  promise  strengthened  by  his  Music  and  Moonlight 
(1874).  Always  delicate  in  health,  his  hopes  were  dashed  by 
periods  of  illness  and  an  early  death  in  London  in  1881. 

The  poem  here  reprinted  is  not  only  O'Shaughnessy's  best,  but 
is,  because  of  its  perfect  blending  of  music  and  message,  one 
of  the  immortal  classics  of  our  verse. 


ODE 

We  are  the  music-makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by  lone  sea-breakers, 

And  sitting  by  desolate  streams ; 
World-losers  and  world-forsakers, 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams: 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 

Of  the  world  for  ever,  it  seems. 

With  wonderful  deathless  ditties 
We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities, 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

We  fashion  an  empire's  glory : 
One  man  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown ; 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure 

Can  trample  an  empire  down. 


Arthur  O'Shaughnessy 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built  Nineveh  with  our  sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  with  our  mirth; 
And  overthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth ; 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying, 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth. 


William  Ernest  Henley 

William  Ernest  Henley  was  born  in  1849  and  was  educated 
at  the  Grammar  School  of  Gloucester.  From  childhood  he  was 
afflicted  with  a  tuberculous  disease  which  finally  necessitated 
the  amputation  of  a  foot.  His  Hospital  Verses,  those  vivid 
precursors  of  current  free  verse,  were  a  record  of  the  time 
when  he  was  at  the  infirmary  at  Edinburgh;  they  are  sharp 
with  the  sights,  sensations,  even  the  actual  smells  of  the  sick- 
room. In  spite  (or,  more  probably,  because)  of  his  continued 
poor  health,  Henley  never  ceased  to  worship  strength  and 
energy;  courage  and  a  triumphant  belief  in  a  harsh  world 
shine  out  of  the  athletic  London  Voluntaries  (1892)  and  the 
lightest  and  most  musical  lyrics  in  Hawthorn  and  Lavender 
(1898). 

The  bulk  of  Henley's  poetry  is  not  great  in  volume.  He  has 
himself  explained  the  small  quantity  of  his  work  in  a  Preface 
to  his  Poems,  first  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  in  1898. 
"  A  principal  reason,"  he  says,  "  is  that,  after  spending  the 
better  part  of  my  life  in  the  pursuit  of  poetry,  I  found  myself 
(about  1877)  so  utterly  unmarketable  that  I  had  to  own  myself 
beaten  in  art,  and  to  indict  myself  to  journalism  for  the  next 
ten  years."  Later  on,  he  began  to  write  again — "  old  dusty 
sheaves  were  dragged  to  light;  the  work  of  selection  and  cor- 

9 


William  Ernest  Henley 

rection  was  begun;  I  burned  much;  I  found  that,  after  all,  the 
lyrical  instinct  had  slept — not  died.'* 

After   a  brilliant   and  varied   career    (see  Preface),   devoted 
mostly  to  journalism,  Henley  died   in  1903. 

INVICTUS 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  Pit  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 

In  the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find,  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate: 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

THE  BLACKBIRD 

The  nightingale  has  a  lyre  of  gold, 

The  lark's  is  a  clarion  call, 
And  the  blackbird  plays  but  a  boxwood  flute, 

But  I  love  him  best  of  all. 
10 


William  Ernest  Henley 

For  his  song  is  all  of  the  joy  of  life, 
And  we  in  the  mad,  spring  weather, 

We  two  have  listened  till  he  sang 
Our  hearts  and  lips  together. 


A  BOWL  OF  ROSES 

It  was  a  bowl  of  roses: 

There  in  the  light  they  lay, 

Languishing,  glorying,  glowing 
Their  life  away. 

And  the  soul  of  them  rose  like  a  presence, 

Into  me  crept  and  grew, 
And  filled  me  with  something — some  one — 

O,  was  it  you? 


BEFORE 

Behold  me  waiting — waiting  for  the  knife. 
A  little  while,  and  at  a  leap  I  storm 
The  thick  sweet  mystery  of  chloroform, 
The  drunken  dark,  the  little  death-in-life. 
The  gods  are  good  to  me:  I  have  no  wife, 
No  innocent  child,  to  think  of  as  I  near 
The  fateful  minute;  nothing  ail-too  dear 
Unmans  me  for  my  bout  of  passive  strife. 
II 


William  ILrnest  Henley 

Yet  I  am  tremulous  and  a  trifle  sick, 
And,  face  to  face  with  chance,  I  shrink  a  little: 
My  hopes  are  strong,  my  will  is  something  weak. 
Here  comes  the  basket?    Thank  you.    I  am  ready 
But,  gentlemen  my  porters,  life  is  brittle: 
You  carry  Caesar  and  his  fortunes — Steady! 

MARGARITA  SORORI 

A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies ; 

And  from  the  west, 

Where  the  sun,  his  day's  work  ended, 

Lingers  as  in  content, 

There  falls  on  the  old,  grey  city 

An  influence  luminous  and  serene, 

A  shining  peace. 

The  smoke  ascends 

In  a  rosy-and-golden  haze.     The  spires 

Shine,  and  are  changed.    In  the  valley 

Shadows  rise.    The  lark  sings  on.    The  sun, 

Closing  his  benediction, 

Sinks,  and  the  darkening  air 

Thrills  with  a  sense  of  the  triumphing  night — 

Night  with  her  train  of  stars 

And  her  great  gift  of  sleep. 

So  be  my  passing! 

My  task  accomplished  and  the  long  day  done, 
My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 
Some  late  lark  singing, 
12 


William  Ernest  Henley 

Let  me  be  gathered  to  the  quiet  west, 
The  sundown  splendid  and  serene, 
Death. 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  born  at  Edinburgh  in  1850.  He 
was  at  first  trained  to  be  a  lighthouse  engineer,  following  the 
profession  of  his  family.  However,  he  studied  law  instead; 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1875;  and  abandoned  law  for 
literature  a  few  years  later. 

Though  primarily  a  novelist,  Stevenson  has  left  one  immortal 
book  of  poetry  which  is  equally  at  home  in  the  nursery  and 
the  library:  A  Child's  Garden  of  Verses  (first  published  in 
1885)  is  second  only  to  Mother  Goose's  own  collection  in  its 
lyrical  simplicity  and  universal  appeal.  Underwoods  (1887) 
and  Ballads  (1890)  comprise  his  entire  poetic  output.  As  a 
genial  essayist,  he  is  not  unworthy  to  be  ranked  with  Charles 
Lamb.  As  a  romancer,  his  fame  rests  securely  on  Kidnapped, 
the  unfinished  masterpiece,  W eir  of  Hermiston,  and  that  eternal 
classic  of  youth,  Treasure  Island. 

Stevenson  died  after  a  long  and  dogged  fight  with  his  illness, 
in  the  Samoan  Islands  in  1894. 


SUMMER  SUN 

Great  is  the  sun,  and  wide  he  goes 
Through  empty  heaven  without  repose; 
And  in  the  blue  and  glowing  days 
More  thick  than  rain  he  showers  his  rays. 

Though  closer  still  the  blinds  we  pull 
To  keep  the  shady  parlour  cool, 
Yet  he  will  find  a  chink  or  two 
To  slip  his  goJden  fingers  through. 
13 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

The  dusty  attic,  spider-clad, 
He,  through  the  keyhole,  maketh  glad; 
And  through  the  broken  edge  of  tiles 
Into  the  laddered  hay-loft  smiles. 

Meantime  his  golden  face  around 
He  bares  to  all  the  garden  ground, 
And  sheds  a  warm  and  glittering  look 
Among  the  ivy's  inmost  nook. 

Above  the  hills,  along  the  blue, 
Round  the  bright  air  with  footing  true, 
To  please  the  child,  to  paint  the  rose, 
The  gardener  of  the  World,  he  goes. 


WINTER-TIME 

Late  lies  the  wintry  sun  a-bed, 

A  frosty,  fiery  sleepy-head ; 

Blinks  but  an  hour  or  two;  and  then, 

A  blood-red  orange,  sets  again. 

Before  the  stars  have  left  the  skies, 
At  morning  in  the  dark  I  rise; 
And  shivering  in  my  nakedness, 
By  the  cold  candle,  bathe  and  dress. 

Close  by  the  jolly  fire  I  sit 

To  warm  my  frozen  bones  a  bit; 

Or  with  a  reindeer-sled,  explore 

The  colder  countries  round  the  door. 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

When  to  go  out,  my  nurse  doth  wrap 
Me  in  my  comforter  and  cap; 
The  cold  wind  burns  my  face,  and  blows 
Its  frosty  pepper  up  my  nose. 

Black  are  my  steps  on  silver  sod; 
Thick  blows  my  frosty  breath  abroad ; 
And  tree  and  house,  and  hill  and  lake, 
Are  frosted  like  a  wedding-cake. 


ROMANCE 

I  will  make  you  brooches  and  toys  for  your  delight 
Of  bird-song  at  morning  and  star-shine  at  night. 
I  will  make  a  palace  fit  for  you  and  me, 
Of  green  days  in  forests  and  blue  days  at  sea. 

I  will  make  my  kitchen,  and  you  shall  keep  your  room, 
Where  white  flows  the  river  and  bright  blows  the  broom, 
And  you  shall  wash  your  linen  and  keep  your  body  white 
In  rainfall  at  morning  and  devvfall  at  night. 

And  this  shall  be  for  music  when  no  one  else  is  near, 
The  fine  song  for  singing,  the  rare  song  to  hear! 
That  only  I  remember,  that  only  you  admire, 
Of  the  broad  road  that  stretches  and  the  roadside  fire. 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


REQUIEM 

Under, the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie: 

Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  'grave  for  me: 
Here  he  lies  where  he  long'd  to  be; 

Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


Alice  Meynell 

Alice  Meynell  was  born  in  London  in  1850.  She  was  edu- 
cated at  home  and  spent  a  great  part  of  her  childhood  in  Italy. 
She  has  written  little,  but  that  little  is  on  an  extremely  high 
plane;  her  verses  are  simple,  pensive  and  always  distinguished. 
The  best  of  her  work  is  in  Poems  (1903). 


A  THRUSH  BEFORE  DAWN 

A  voice  peals  in  this  end  of  night 

A  phrase  of  notes  resembling  stars, 
Single  and  spiritual  notes  of  light. 
What  call  they  at  my  window-bars? 
The  South,  the  past,  the  day  to  be, 
An  ancient  infelicity. 
16 


Alice  Meynell 

Darkling,  deliberate,  what  sings 

This  wonderful  one,  alone,  at  peace? 
What  wilder  things  than  song,  what  things 
Sweeter  than  youth,  clearer  than  Greece, 
Dearer  than  Italy,  untold 
Delight,  and  freshness  centuries  old? 

And  first  first-loves,  a  multitude, 

The  exaltation  of  their  pain ; 
Ancestral  childhood  long  renewed ; 
And  midnights  of  invisible  rain; 

And  gardens,  gardens,  night  and  day, 
Gardens  and  childhood  all  the  way. 

What  Middle  Ages  passionate, 

O  passionless  voice !    What  distant  bells 
Lodged  in  the  hills,  what  palace  state 
Illyrian!     For  it  speaks,  it  tells, 
Without  desire,  without  dismay, 
Some  morrow  and  some  yesterday. 

All-natural  things!     But  more — Whence  came 

This  yet  remoter  mystery? 
How  do  these  starry  notes  proclaim 
A  graver  still  divinity? 

This  hope,  this  sanctity  of  fear? 
O  innocent  throat!     O  human  earl 


Fiona  Macleod 

(William  Sharp) 

William  Sharp  was  born  at  Garthland  Place,  Scotland,  in 
1855.  He  wrote  several  volumes  of  biography  and  criticism, 
published  a  book  of  plays  greatly  influenced  by  Maeterlinck 
(Vistas]  and  was  editor  of  "The  Canterbury  Poets"  series. 

His  feminine  alter  ego,  Fiona  Macleod,  was  a  far  different 
personality.  Sharp  actually  believed  himself  possessed  of  an- 
other spirit;  under  the  spell  of  this  other  self,  he  wrote  several 
volumes  of  Celtic  tales,  beautiful  tragic  romances  and  no  little 
unusual  poetry.  Of  the  prose  stories  written  by  Fiona  Macleod, 
the  most  barbaric  and  vivid  are  those  collected  in  The  Sin-Eater 
and  Other  Tales;  the  longer  Pharais,  A  Romance  of  the  Islest 
is  scarcely  less  unique. 

In  the  ten  years,  1882-1891,  William  Sharp  published  four 
volumes  of  rather  undistinguished  verse.  In  1896  From  the 
Hills  of  Dream  appeared  over  the  signature  of  Fiona  Macleod; 
The  Hour  of  Beauty,  an  even  more  distinctive  collection,  fol- 
lowed shortly.  Both  poetry  and  prose  were  always  the  result 
of  two  sharply  differentiated  moods  constantly  fluctuating;  the 
emotional  mood  was  that  of  Fiona  Macleod,  the  intellectual 
and,  it  must  be  admitted  the  more  arresting,  was  that  of  Will- 
iam Sharp. 

He  died  in  1905. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SILENCE 

In  the  secret  Valley  of  Silence 

No  breath  doth  fall ; 
No  wind  stirs  in  the  branches; 
No  bird  doth  call : 
As  on  a  white  wall 

A  breathless  lizard  is  still, 
So  silence  lies  on  the  valley 
Breathlessly  still. 
18 


Fiona  Macleod 

In  the  dusk-grown  heart  of  the  valley 

An  altar  rises  white : 
No  rapt  priest  bends  in  awe 
Before  its  silent  light: 
But  sometimes  a  flight 

Of  breathless  words  of  prayer 
White-wing'd  enclose  the  altar, 
Eddies  of  prayer. 

THE  VISION 

In  a  fair  place 

Of  whin  and  grass, 
I  heard  feet  pass 
Where  no  one  was. 

I  saw  a  face 

Bloom  like  a  flower — 
Nay,  as  the  rainbow-shower 
Of  a  tempestuous  hour. 

It  was  not  man,  or  woman: 
It  was  not  human : 

But,  beautiful  and  wild, 

Terribly  undefiled, 

I  knew  an  unborn  child. 

Oscar  Wilde 

Oscar  Wilde  was  born  at  Dublin,  Ireland,  in  1856,  and  even 
as  an  undergraduate  at  Oxford  he  was  marked  for  a  brilliant 
career.  When  he  was  a  trifle  over  21  years  of  age,  he  won  the 
Newdigate  Prize  with  his  poem  Ravenna. 

19 


Oscar  Wilde 

Giving  himself  almost  entirely  to  prose,  he  speedily  became 
known  as  a  writer  of  brilliant  epigrammatic  essays  and  even 
more  brilliant  paradoxical  plays  such  as  An  Ideal  Husband  and 
The  Importance  of  Being  Earnest.  His  aphorisms  and  flip- 
pancies were  quoted  everywhere;  his  fame  as  a  wit  was  only 
surpassed  by  his  notoriety  as  an  aesthete.  (See  Preface.) 

Most  of  his  poems  in  prose  (such  as  The  Happy  Prince,  The 
Birthday  of  the  Infanta  and  The  Fisherman  and  His  Soul) 
are  more  imaginative  and  richly  colored  than  his  verse;  but 
in  one  long  poem,  The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol  (1898),  he 
sounded  his  deepest,  simplest  and  most  enduring  note.  Prison 
was,  in  many  ways,  a  regeneration  for  Wilde.  It  not  only 
produced  The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol  but  made  possible  his 
most  poignant  piece  of  writing,  De  Profundis,  only  a  imall 
part  of  which  has  been  published.  Salom/,  which  has  made 
the  author's  name  a  household  word,  was  originally  written  in 
French  in  1892  and  later  translated  into  English  by  Lord 
Alfred  Douglas,  accompanied  by  the  famous  illustrations  by 
Aubrey  Beardsley.  More  recently  this  heated  drama,  based 
on  the  story  of  Herod  and  Herodias,  was  made  into  an  opera 
by  Richard  Strauss. 

Wilde's  society  plays,  flashing  and  cynical,  were  the  fore- 
runners of  Bernard  Shaw's  audacious  and  far  more  searching 
ironies.  One  sees  the  origin  of  a  whole  school  of  drama  in 
such  epigrams  as  "  The  history  of  woman  is  the  history  of  the 
worst  form  of  tyranny  the  world  has  ever  known:  the  tyranny 
of  the  weak  over  the  strong.  It  is  the  only  tyranny  that  lasts." 
Or  "  There  is  only  one  thing  in  the  world  worse  than  being 
talked  about,  and  that  is  not  being  talked  about." 

Wilde  died  at  Paris,  November  30,  1900. 


REQUIESCAT 

Tread  lightly,  she  is  near 
Under  the  snow, 

Speak  gently,  she  can  hear 
The  daisies  grow. 

20 


Oscar  Wilde 

All  her  bright  golden  hair 
Tarnished  with  rust, 

She  that  was  young  and  fair 
Fallen  to  dust. 

Lily-like,  white  as  snow, 

She  hardly  knew 
She  was  a  woman,  so 

Sweetly  she  grew. 

Coffin-board,  heavy  stone, 
Lie  on  her  breast; 

I  vex  my  heart  alone, 
She  is  at  rest. 

Peace,  peace ;  she  cannot  hear 

Lyre  or  sonnet; 
All  my  life's  buried  here, 

Heap  earth  upon  it. 


IMPRESSION  DU  MATIN 

The  Thames  nocturne  of  blue  and  gold 
Changed  to  a  harmony  in  grey; 
A  barge  with  ochre-coloured  hay 

Dropt  from  the  wharf:  and  chill  and  cold 

The  yellow  fog  came  creeping  down 
The  bridges,  till  the  houses'  walls 
Seemed  changed  to  shadows,  and  St.  Paul's 

Loomed  like  a  bubble  o'er  the  town. 

21 


Oscar  Wilde 

Then  suddenly  arose  the  clang 

Of  waking  life ;  the  streets  were  stirred 
With  country  waggons;  and  a  bird 

Flew  to  the  glistening  roofs  and  sang. 

But  one  pale  woman  all  alone, 

The  daylight  kissing  her  wan  hair, 
Loitered  beneath  the  gas  lamps'  flare, 

With  lips  of  flame  and  heart  of  stone. 


John  Davidson 

John  Davidson  was  born  at  Barrhead,  Renfrewshire,  in  1857. 
His  Ballads  and  Songs  (1895)  and  New  Ballads  (1897)  at- 
tained a  sudden  but  too  short-lived  popularity,  and  his  great 
promise  was  quenched  by  an  apathetic  public  and  by  his  own 
growing  disillusion  and  despair.  His  sombre  yet  direct  poetry 
never  tired  of  repeating  his  favorite  theme:  "Man  is  but  the 
Universe  grown  conscious." 

Davidson  died  by  his  own  hand   in   1909. 


A  BALLAD  OF  HELL 

*  A  letter  from  my  love  to-day ! 

Oh,  unexpected,  dear  appeal!' 
She  struck  a  happy  tear  away, 

And  broke  the  crimson  seal. 

'  My  love,  there  is  no  help  on  earth, 
No  help  in  heaven ;  the  dead-man's  bell 

Must  toll  our  wedding;  our  first  hearth 
Must  be  the  well-paved  floor  of  hell.' 

22 


John  Davidson 

The  colour  died  from  out  her  face, 
Her  eyes  like  ghostly  candles  shone; 

She  cast  dread  looks  about  the  place, 

Then  clenched  her  teeth  and  read  right  on. 

'  I  may  not  pass  the  prison  door ; 

Here  must  I  rot  from  day  to  day, 
Unless  I  wed  whom  I  abhor, 

My  cousin,  Blanche  of  Valencay. 

'At  midnight  with  my  dagger  keen, 
I'll  take  my  life;  it  must  be  so. 

Meet  me  in  hell  to-night,  my  queen, 
For  weal  and  woe.' 

She  laughed  although  her  face  was  wan, 

She  girded  on  her  golden  belt, 
She  took  her  jewelled  ivory  fan, 

And  at  her  glowing  missal  knelt. 

Then  rose,  *  And  am  I  mad  ? '  she  said : 
She  broke  her  fan,  her  belt  untied ; 

With  leather  girt  herself  instead, 
And  stuck  a  dagger  at  her  side. 

She  waited,  shuddering  in  her  room, 
Till  sleep  had  fallen  on  all  the  house. 

She  never  flinched;  she  faced  her  doom: 
They  two  must  sin  to  keep  their  vows. 
23 


John  Davidson 

Then  out  into  the  night  she  went, 

And,  stooping,  crept  by  hedge  and  tree; 

Her  rose-bush  flung  a  snare  of  scent, 
And  caught  a  happy  memory. 

She  fell,  and  lay  a  minute's  space ; 

She  tore  the  sward  in  her  distress; 
The  dewy  grass  refreshed  her  face; 

She  rose  and  ran  with  lifted  dress. 

She  started  like  a  morn-caught  ghost 
Once  when  the  moon  came  out  and  stood 

To  watch;  the  naked  road  she  crossed, 
And  dived  into  the  murmuring  wood. 

The  branches  snatched  her  streaming  cloak; 

A  live  thing  shrieked;  she  made  no  stay! 
She  hurried  tc  the  trysting-oak — 

Right  well  she  knew  the  way. 

Without  a  pause  she  bared  her  breast, 
And  drove  her  dagger  home  and  fell, 

And  lay  like  one  that  takes  her  rest, 
And  died  and  wakened  up  in  hell. 

She  bathed  her  spirit  in  the  flame, 
And  near  the  centre  took  her  post; 

From  all  sides  to  her  ears  there  came 
The  dreary  anguish  of  the  lost. 
24 


John  Davidson 

The  devil  started  at  hei  side, 

Comely,  and  tall,  and  black  as  jet. 

4 1  am  young  Malespina's  bride ; 
Has  he  come  hither  yet? ' 

*  My  poppet,  welcome  to  your  bed/ 

*  Is  Malespina  here?1 
'  Not  he !     To-morrow  he  must  wed 

His  cousin  Blanche,  my  dear!  ' 

'  You  lie,  he  died  with  me  to-night/ 

'  Not  he !  it  was  a  plot '   .    .    .   *  You  lie.' 

'  My  dear,  I  never  lie  outright/ 
'  We  died  at  midnight,  he  and  I/ 

The  devil  went.    Without  a  groan 
She,  gathered  up  in  one  fierce  prayer, 

Took  root  in  hell's  midst  all  alone, 
And  waited  for  him  there. 

She  dared  to  make  herself  at  home 
Amidst  the  wail,  the  uneasy  stir. 

The  blood-stained  flame  that  filled  the  dome, 
Scentless  and  silent,  shrouded  her. 

How  long  she  stayed  I  cannot  tell ; 

But  when  she  felt  his  perfidy, 
She  marched  across  the  floor  of  hell  ; 

And  all  the  damned  stood  up  to  see. 
25 


John  Davidson 

The  devil  stopped  her  at  the  brink: 
She  shook  him  off;  she  cried,  '  Away! ' 

'  My  dear,  you  have  gone  mad,  I  think/ 
'  I  was  betrayed :  I  will  not  stay.' 

Across  the  weltering  deep  she  ran; 

A  stranger  thing  was  never  seen: 
The  damned  stood  silent  to  a  man ; 

They  saw  the  great  gulf  set  between. 

To  her  it  seemed  a  meadow  fair; 

And  flowers  sprang  up  about  her  feet 
She  entered  heaven ;  she  climbed  the  stair 

And  knelt  down  at  the  mercy-seat. 

Seraphs  and  saints  with  one  great  voice 
Welcomed  that  soul  that  knew  not  fear. 

Amazed  to  find  it  could  rejoice, 

Hell  raised  a  hoarse,  half-human  cheer. 


IMAGINATION 

(From  "  New  Year's  Eve  ") 

There  is  a  dish  to  hold  the  sea, 
A  brazier  to  contain  the  sun, 

A  compass  for  the  galaxy, 

A  voice  to  wake  the  dead  and  done! 
26 


John  Davidson 

That  minister  of  ministers, 

Imagination,    gathers  up 
The  undiscovered  Universe, 

Like  jewels  in  a  jasper  cup. 

Its  flame  can  mingle  north  and  south; 

Its  accent  with  the  thunder  strive; 
The  ruddy  sentence  of  its  mouth 

Can  make  the  ancient  dead  alive. 

The  mart  of  power,  the  fount  of  will, 
The  form  and  mould  of  every  star, 

The  source  and  bound  of  good  and  ill, 
The  key  of  all  the  things  that  are, 

Imagination,  new  and  strange 
In  every  age,  can  turn  the  year; 

Can  shift  the  poles  and  lightly  change 
The  mood  of  men,  the  world's  career. 


William  Watson 

William  Watson  was  born  at  Burley-in-Wharfedale,  York- 
shire, August  2,  1858.  He  achieved  his  first  wide  success 
through  his  long  and  eloquent  poems  on  Wordsworth,  Shelley, 
and  Tennyson — poems  that  attempted,  and  sometimes  success- 
fully, to  combine  the  manners  of  these  masters.  The  Hope  of 
the  World  (1897)  contains  some  of  his  most  characteristic  verse. 

It  was  understood  that  he  would  be  appointed  poet  laureate 
upon  the  death  of  Alfred  Austin.  But  some  of  his  radical  and 
semi-political  poems  are  supposed  to  have  displeased  the  pow- 

27 


William  Watson 

ers  at  Court,  and  the  honor  went  to  Robert  Bridges.  His  best 
work,  which  is  notable  for  its  dignity  and  moulded  imagina- 
tion, may  be  found  in  Selected  Poems,  published  in  1903  by 
John  Lane  Co. 

ODE  IN  MAY1 


Let  me  go  forth,  and  share 
The   overflowing   Sun 
With  one  wise  friend,  or  one 
Better  than  wise,  being  fair, 
Where  the  pewit  wheels  and  dips 
On  heights  of  bracken  and  ling, 
And  Earth,  unto  her  leaflet  tips, 
Tingles  with  the  Spring. 

What  is  so  sweet  and  dear 
As  a  prosperous  morn  in  May, 
The  confident  prime  of  the  day, 
And  the  dauntless  youth  of  the  year, 
When  nothing  that  asks  for  bliss, 
Asking  aright,   is  denied, 
And  half  of  the  world  a  bridegroom  is, 
And  half  of  the  world  a  bride  ? 

The  Song  of  Mingling  flows, 
Grave,  ceremonial,  pure, 
As  once,  from  lips  that  endure, 
The  cosmic  descant  rose, 

1  From  The  Hope  of  the  World  by  William  Watson.  Copy- 
right, 1897,  by  John  Lane  Company.  Reprinted  by  permission  of 
tht  publishers. 

28 


William  Watson 

When  the  temporal  lord  of  life, 
Going  his  golden  way, 
Had  taken  a  wondrous  maid  to  wife 
That  long  had  said  him  nay. 

For  of  old  the  Sun,  our  sire, 
Came  wooing  the  mother  of  men, 
Earth,  that  was  virginal  then, 
Vestal  fire  to  his  fire. 
Silent  her  bosom  and  coy, 
But  the  strong  god  sued  and  pressed; 
And  born  of  their  starry  nuptial  joy 
Are  all  that  drink  of  her  breast. 

And  the  triumph  of  him  that  begot, 
And  the  travail  of  her  that  bore, 
Behold,  they  are  evermore 
As  warp  and  weft  in  our  lot. 
We  are  children  of  splendour  and  flame, 
Of  shuddering,  also,  and  tears. 
Magnificent  out  of  the  dust  we  came, 
And  abject  from  the  Spheres. 

O  bright  irresistible  lord, 

We  are  fruit  of  Earth's  womb,  each  one, 

And  fruit  of  thy  loins,  O  Sun, 

Whence  first  was  the  seed  outpoured. 

To  thee  as  our  Father  we  bow, 

Forbidden  thy  Father  to  see, 

Who  is  older  and  greater  than  thou,  as 

thou 

Art  greater  and  older  than  we. 
29 


William  Watson 

Thou  art  but  as  a  word  of  his  speech, 
Thou  art  but  as  a  wave  of  his  hand ; 
Thou  art  brief  as  a  glitter  of  sand 
'Twixt  tide  and  tide  on  his  beach ; 
Thou  art  less  than  a  spark  of  his  fire, 
Or  a  moment's  mood  of  his  soul: 
Thou  art  lost  in  the  notes  on  the  lips  of 

his  choir 
That  chant  the  chant  of  the  Whole. 


ESTRANGEMENT  1 

So,  without  overt  breach,  we  fall  apart, 
Tacitly  sunder — neither  you  nor  I 
Conscious  of  one  intelligible  Why, 
And  both,  from  severance,  winning  equal  smart. 
So,  with  resigned  and  acquiescent  heart, 
Whene'er  your  name  on  some  chance  lip  may  lie, 
I  seem  to  see  an  alien  shade  pass  by, 
A  spirit  wherein  I  have  no  lot  or  part. 

Thus  may  a  captive,  in  some  fortress  grim, 
From  casual  speech  betwixt  his  warders,  learn 
That  June  on  her  triumphal  progress  goes 
Through  arched  and  bannered  woodlands;  while 

for  him 

She  is  a  legend  emptied  of  concern, 
And  idle  is  the  rumour  of  the  rose. 

1  From  The  Hope  of  the  World  by  William  Watson.  Copy- 
right, 1897,  by  John  Lane  Company.  Reprinted  by  permission  of 
the  publishers. 

30 


William  Watson 

SONG 

April,  April, 

Laugh  thy  girlish  laughter; 
Then,  the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  girlish  tears, 
April,  that  mine  ears 
Like  a  lover  greetest, 
If  I  tell  thee,  sweetest, 
All  my  hopes  and  fears. 
April,  April, 

Laugh  thy  golden  laughter, 
But,  the  moment  after, 
Weep  thy  golden  tears! 


Francis  Thompson 

Born  in  1859  at  Preston,  Francis  Thompson  was  educated  at 
Owen's  College,  Manchester.  Later  he  tried  all  manner  of 
strange  ways  of  earning  a  living.  He  was,  at  various  times, 
assistant  in  a  boot-shop,  medical  student,  collector  for  a  book 
seller  and  homeless  vagabond ;  there  was  a  period  in  his  life 
when  he  sold  matches  on  the  streets  of  London.  He  was 
discovered  in  terrible  poverty  (having  given  up  everything  ex- 
cept poetry  and  opium)  by  the  editor  of  a  magazine  to  which 
he  had  sent  some  verses  the  year  before.  Almost  immediately 
thereafter  he  became  famous.  His  exalted  mysticism  is  seen 
at  its  purest  in  "  A  Fallen  Yew"  and  "The  Hound  of  Heaven." 
Coventry  Patmore,  the  distinguished  poet  of  an  earlier  period, 
says  of  the  latter  poem,  which  is  unfortunately  too  long  to 

31 


Francis  Thompson 

quote,   "  It  is   one  of  the   very   few   great  odes   of  which  *ur 
language  can  boast." 

Thompson   died,   after   a  fragile    and   spasmodic   life,   in   St. 
John's  Wood  in  November,  1907. 

DAISY 

Where  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown 

Six  foot  out  of  the  turf, 
And  the  harebell  shakes  on  the  windy  hill — 

O  breath  of  the  distant  surf ! — 

The  hills  look  over  on  the  South, 

And  southward  dreams  the  sea; 
And  with  the  sea-breeze  hand  in  hand 
Came  innocence  and  she. 

Where  'mid  the  gorse  the  raspberry 
Red  for  the  gatherer  springs; 

Two  children  did  we  stray  and  talk 
Wise,  idle,  childish  things. 

She  listened  with  big-lipped  surprise, 
Breast-deep  'mid  flower  and  spine: 

Her  skin  was  like  a  grape  whose  veins 
Run  snow  instead  of  wine. 

She  knew  not  those  sweet  words  she  spake, 
Nor  knew  her  own  sweet  way ; 

But  there's  never  a  bird,  so  sweet  a  song 
Thronged  in  whose  throat  all  day. 
32 


Francis  Thompson 

Oh,  there  were  flowers  in  Storrington 
On  the  turf  and  on  the  spray; 

But  the  sweetest  flower  on  Sussex  hills 
Was  the  Daisy-flower  that  day! 

Her  beauty  smoothed  earth's  furrowed  face. 

She  gave  me  tokens  three: — 
A  look,  a  word  of  her  winsome  mouth, 

And  a  wild  raspberry. 

A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 

A  still  word, — strings  of  sand! 

And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 
Fly  down  to  her  little  hand. 

For  standing  artless  as  the  air, 

And  candid  as  the  skies, 
She  took  the  berries  with  her  hand, 

And  the  love  with  her  sweet  eyes. 

The  fairest  things  have  fleetest  end, 
Their  scent  survives  their  close: 

But  the  rose's  scent  is  bitterness 
To  him  that  loved  the  rose. 

She  looked  a  little  wistfully, 

Then  went  her  sunshine  way: — 

The  sea's  eye  had  a  mist  on  it, 

And  the  leaves  fell  from  the  day. 
33 


Francis  Thompson 

She  went  her  unremembering  way, 
She  went  and  left  in  me 

The  pang  of  all  the  partings  gone, 
And  partings  yet  to  be. 

She  left  me  marvelling  why  my  soul 
Was  sad  that  she  was  glad ; 

At  all  the  sadness  in  the  sweet, 
The  sweetness  in  the  sad. 

Still,  still  I  seemed  to  see  her,  still 
Look  up  with  soft  replies, 

And  take  the  berries  with  her  hand, 
And  the  love  with  her  lovely  eyes. 

Nothing  begins,  and  nothing  ends, 
That  is  not  paid  with  moan, 

For  we  are  born  in  other's  pain, 
And  perish  in  our  own. 


TO  OLIVIA 

I  fear  to  love  thee,  Sweet,  because 
Love's  the  ambassador  of  loss; 
White  flake  of  childhood,  clinging  so 
To  my  soiled  raiment,  thy  shy  snow 
At  tenderest  touch  will  shrink  and  go. 
Love  me  not,  delightful  child. 
My  heart,  by  many  snares  beguiled, 
Has  grown  timorous  and  wild. 
34 


Francis  Thompson 

It  would  fear  thee  not  at  all, 
Wert  thou  not  so  harmless-small. 
Because  thy  arrows,  not  yet  dire, 
Are  still  unbarbed  with  destined  fire, 
I  fear  thee  more  than  hadst  thou  stood 
Full-panoplied  in  womanhood. 


AN  ARAB  LOVE-SONG 

The  hunched  camels  of  the  night * 
Trouble  the  bright 
And  silver  waters  of  the  moon. 
The  Maiden  of  the  Morn  will  soon 
Through  Heaven  stray  and  sing, 
Star  gathering. 

Now  while  the  dark  about  our  loves  is  strewn, 
Light  of  my  dark,  blood  of  my  heart,  O  come! 
And  night  will  catch  her  breath  up,  and  be  dumb. 

Leave  thy  father,  leave  thy  mother 

And  thy  brother; 

Leave  the  black  tents  of  thy  tribe  apart! 

Am  I  not  thy  father  and  thy  brother, 

And  thy  mother? 

And  thou — what  needest  with  thy  tribe's  black 

tents 
Who  hast  the  red  pavilion  of  my  heart? 

1  (Cloud-shapes  observed  by  travellers  in  the  East.) 
35 


A.  E.  Housman 

A.  E.  Housman  was  born  March  26,  1859,  and,  after  a  classi- 
cal education,  he  was,  for  ten  years,  a  Higher  Division  Clerk 
in  H.  M.  Patent  Office.  Later  in  life,  he  became  a  teacher. 

Housman  has  published  only  one  volume  of  original  verse, 
but  that  volume  (A  Shropshire  Lad)  is  known  wherever  mod- 
ern English  poetry  is  read.  Originally  published  in  1896,  when 
Housman  was  almost  37,  it  is  evident  that  many  of  these  lyrics 
were  written  when  the  poet  was  much  younger.  Echoing  the 
frank  pessimism  of  Hardy  and  the  harder  cynicism  of  Heine, 
Housman  struck  a  lighter  and  more  buoyant  note.  Underneath 
his  dark  ironies,  there  is  a  rustic  humor  that  has  many  subtle 
variations.  From  a  melodic  standpoint,  A  Shropshire  Lad  is  a 
collection  of  exquisite,  haunting  and  almost  perfect  songs. 

Housman  has  been  a  professor  of  Latin  since  1892  and,  be- 
sides his  immortal  set  of  lyrics,  has  edited  Juvenal  and  the 
books  of  Manilius. 


REVEILLfi 

Wake:  the  silver  dusk  returning 
Up  the  beach  of  darkness  brims, 

And  the  ship  of  sunrise  burning 
Strands  upon  the  eastern  rims. 

Wake:   the  vaulted  shadow  shatters, 
Trampled  to  the  floor  it  spanned, 

And  the  tent  of  night  in  tatters 
Straws  the  sky-pavilioned  land. 

Up,  lad,  up,  'tis  late  for  lying: 
Hear  the  drums  of  morning  play; 

Hark,  the  empty  highways  crying 
"  Who'll  beyond  the  hills  away?  " 
36 


A.  E.  Housman 

Towns  and  countries  woo  together, 
Forelands  beacon,  belfries  call; 

Never  lad  that  trod  on  leather 
Lived  to  feast  his  heart  with  all. 

Up,  lad :  thews  that  lie  and  cumber 
Sunlit  pallets  never  thrive; 

Morns  abed  and  daylight  slumber 
Were  not  meant  for  man  alive. 

Clay  lies  still,  but  blood's  a  rover; 

Breath's  a  ware  that  will  not  keep. 
Up,  lad:  when  the  journey's  over 

There'll  be  time  enough  to  sleep. 


WHEN  I  WAS  ONE-AND-TWENTY 

When  I  was  one-and-twenty 

I  heard  a  wise  man  say, 
"  Give  crowns  and  pounds  and  guineas 

But'not  your  heart  away; 
Give  pearls  away  and  rubies 

But  keep  your  fancy  free." 
But  I  was  one-and-twenty, 

No  use  to  talk  to  me. 

When  I  was  one-and-twenty 

I  heard  him-  say  again, 
"  The  heart  out  of  the  bosom 

Was  never  given  in  vain; 
37 


A.  E.  Housman 

'Tis  paid  with  sighs  a-plenty 
And  sold  for  endless  rue." 

And  I  am  two-and-twenty, 
And  oh,  'tis  true,  'tis  true. 


WITH  RUE  MY  HEART  IS  LADEN 

With  rue  my  heart  is  laden 
For  golden  friends  I  had, 

For  many  a  rose-lipt  maiden 
And  many  a  lightfoot  lad. 

By  brooks  too  broad  for  leaping 
The  lightfoot  boys  are  laid ; 

The  rose-lipt  girls  are  sleeping 
In  fields  where  roses  fade. 


TO  AN  ATHLETE  DYING  YOUNG 

The  time  you  won  your  town  the  race 
We  chaired  you  through  the  market-place ; 
Man  and  boy  stood  cheering  by, 
And  home  we  brought  you  shoulder-high. 

To-day,  the  road  all  runners  come, 
Shoulder-high  we  bring  you  home, 
And  set  you  at  your  threshold  down, 
Townsman  of  a  stiller  town. 

38 


+  A.  E.  Housman 

Smart  lad,  to  slip  betimes  away 
From  fields  where  glory  does  not  stay, 
And  early  though  the  laurel  grows 
It  withers  quicker  than  the  rose. 

Eyes  the  shady  night  has  shut 
Cannot  see  the  record  cut, 
And  silence  sounds  no  worse  than  cheers 
After  earth  has  stopped  the  ears: 

Now  you  will  not  swell  the  rout 
Of  lads  that  wore  their  honours  out, 
Runners  whom  renown  outran 
And  the  name  died  before  the  man. 

So  set,  before  its  echoes  fade, 
The  fleet  foot  on  the  sill  of  shade, 
And  hold  to  the  low  lintel  up 
The  still-defended  challenge-cup. 

And  round  that  early-laurelled  head 
Will  flock  to  gaze  the  strengthless  dead, 
And  find  unwithered  on  its  curls 
The  garland  briefer  than  a  girl's. 


"  LOVELIEST  OF  TREES  " 

Loveliest  of  trees,  the  cherry  now 
Is  hung  with  bloom  along  the  bough, 
And  stands  about  the  woodland  ride 
Wearing  white  for  Eastertide. 
39 


A.  E.  Housman 

Now,  of  my  threescore  years  and  ten, 
Twenty  will  not  come  again, 
And  take  from  seventy  springs  a  score, 
It  only  leaves  me  fifty  more. 

And  since  to  look  at  things  in  bloom 
Fifty  springs  are  little  room, 
About  the  woodlands  I  will  go 
To  see  the  cherry  hung  with  snow. 

Douglas  Hyde 

Doctor  Douglas  Hyde  was  born  in  Roscommon  County,  Ire- 
land in,  as  nearly  as  can  be  ascertained,  1860.  One  of  the 
most  brilliant  Irish  scholars  of  his  day,  he  has  worked  inde- 
fatigably  for  the  cause  of  his  native  letters.  He  has  written  a 
comprehensive  history  of  Irish  literature;  has  compiled,  edited 
and  translated  into  English  the  Love  Songs  of  Connaught;  is 
President  of  The  Irish  National  Literary  Society;  and  is  the 
author  of  innumerable  poems  in  Gaelic — far  more  than  he  ever 
wrote  in  English.  His  collections  of  Irish  folk-lore  and  poetry 
were  among  the  most  notable  contributions  to  the  Celtic  revival ; 
they  were  (see  Preface),  to  a  large  extent,  responsible  for  it. 
Since  1909  he  has  been  Professor  of  Modern  Irish  in  University 
Collge,  Dublin. 

The  poem  which  is  here  quoted  is  one  of  his  many  brilliant 
and  reanimating  translations.  In  its  music  and  its  peculiar 
rhyme-scheme,  it  reproduces  the  peculiar  flavor  as  well  as  thr 
meter  of  the  West  Irish  original. 

I  SHALL  NOT  DIE  FOR  THEE 

For  thee,  I  shall  not  die, 

Woman  of  high  fame  and  name; 

Foolish  men  thou  mayest  slay 
I  and  they  are  not  the  same. 
40 


Douglas  Hyde 

Why  should  I  expire 

For  the  fire  of  an  eye, 
Slender  waist  or  swan-like  limb, 

Is't  for  them  that  I  should  die? 

The  round  breasts,  the  fresh  skin, 

Cheeks  crimson,  hair  so  long  and  rich; 

Indeed,  indeed,  I  shall  not  die, 
Please  God,  not  I,  for  any  such. 

The  golden  hair,  the  forehead  thin, 
The  chaste  mien,  the  gracious  ease, 

The  rounded  heel,  the  languid  tone, — 
Fools  alone  find  death  from  these. 

Thy  sharp  wit,  thy  perfect  calm, 
Thy  thin  palm  like  foam  o'  the  sea; 

Thy  white  neck,  thy  blue  eye, 
I  shall  not  die  for  thee. 

Woman,  graceful  as  the  swan, 

A  wrise  man  did  nurture  me. 
Little  palm,  white  neck,  bright  eye, 

I  shall  not  die  for  ye. 


A  my  Levy 

Amy  Levy,  a  singularly  gifted  Jewess,  was  born  at  Clapham, 
in  1861.  A  fiery  young  poet,  she  burdened  her  own  intensity 
with  the  sorrows  of  her  race.  She  wrote  one  novel,  Reuben 

41 


Amy  Levy 

Sachs,  and  two  volumes  of  poetry — the  more  distinctive  of  the 
two  being  half-pathetically  and  half-ironically  entitled  A  Minor 
Poet  (1884).  After  several  years  of  brooding  introspection, 
she  committed  suicide  in  1889  at  the  age  of  28. 


EPITAPH 
(On  a  commonplace  person  who  died  in  bed) 

This  is  the  end  of  him,  here  he  lies: 
The  dust  in  his  throat,  the  worm  in  his  eyes, 
The  mould  in  his  mouth,  the  turf  on  his  breast; 
This  is  the  end  of  him,  this  is  best. 
He  will  never  lie  on  his  couch  awake, 
Wide-eyed,  tearless,  till  dim  daybreak. 
Never  again  will  he  smile  and  smile 
When  his  heart  is  breaking  all  the  while. 
He  will  never  stretch  out  his  hands  in  vain 
Groping  and  groping — never  again. 
Never  ask  for  bread,  get  a  stone  instead, 
Never  pretend  that  the  stone  is  bread ; 
Nor  sway  and  sway  'twixt  the  false  and  true, 
Weighing  and  noting  the  long  hours  through. 
Never  ache  and  ache  with  the  choked-up  sighs; 
This  is  the  end  of  him,  here  he  lies. 

IN  THE  MILE  END  ROAD 

How  like  her!     But  'tis  she  herself, 
Comes  up  the  crowded  street, 

How  little  did   I  think,  the  morn, 
My  only  love  to  meet! 
42 


Amy  Levy 

Who  else  that  motion  and  that  mien  ? 

Whose  else  that  airy  tread? 
For  one  strange  moment  I  forgot 

My  only  love  was  dead. 


Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson 

Katharine  Tynan  was  born  at  Dublin  in  1861,  and  educated 
at  the  Convent  of  St.  Catherine  at  Drogheda.  She  married 
Henry  Hinkson,  a  lawyer  and  author,  in  1893.  Her  poetry  is 
largely  actuated  by  religious  themes,  and  much  of  her  verse  is 
devotional  and  yet  distinctive.  In  New  Poems  (1911)  she  is 
at  her  best;  graceful,  meditative  and  with  occasional  notes  of 
deep  pathos. 


SHEEP  AND  LAMBS 

All  in  the  April  morning, 
April  airs  were  abroad; 

The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 
Pass'd  me  by  on  the  road. 

The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 
Pass'd  me  by  on  the  road ; 

All  in  an  April  evening 

I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God. 

The  lambs  were  weary,  and  crying 
With  a  weak  human  cry; 

I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God 
Going  meekly  to  die. 
43 


Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson 

Up  in  the  blue,  blue  mountains 
Dewy  pastures  are  sweet: 

Rest  for  the  little  bodies, 
Rest  for  the  little  feet. 

Rest  for  the  Lamb  of  God 
Up  on  the  hill-top  green; 

Only  a  cross  of  shame 

Two  stark  crosses  between. 

All  in  the  April  evening, 

April  airs  were  abroad; 
I  saw  the  sheep  with  their  lambs, 

And  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God. 


ALL-SOULS 

The  door  of  Heaven  is  on  the  latch 
To-night,  and  many  a  one  is  fain 

To  go  home  for  one's  night's  watch 
With  his  love  again. 

Oh,  where  the  father  and  mother  sit 

There's  a  drift  of  dead  leaves  at  the  door 
Like  pitter-patter  of  little  feet 
That  come  no  more. 

Their  thoughts  are  in  the  night  and  cold, 
Their  tears  are  heavier  than  the  clay, 

But  who  is  this  at  the  threshold 
So  young  and  gay  ? 

44 


Katharine  Tynan  Plinkson 

They  are  come  from  the  land  o'  the  young, 
They  have  forgotten  how  to  weep ; 

Words  of  comfort  on  the  tongue, 
And  a  kiss  to  keep. 

They  sit  down  and  they  stay  awhile, 
Kisses  and  comfort  none  shall  lack; 

At  morn  they  steal  forth  with  a  smile 
And  a  long  look  back. 


Owen  Seaman 


One  of  the  most  delightful  of  English  versifiers,  Owen  Sea- 
man, was  born  in  1861.  After  receiving  a  classical  education, 
he  became  Professor  of  Literature  and  began  to  write  for 
Punch  in  1894.  In  1906  he  was  made  editor  of  that  interna- 
tionally famous  weekly,  remaining  in  that  capacity  ever  since- 
He  was  knighted  in  1914.  As  a  writer  of  light  verse  and  as  a 
parodist,  his  agile  work  has  delighted  a  generation  of  admir- 
ers. Some  of  his  most  adroit  lines  may  be  found  in  his  In  Cap 
and  Bells  (1902)  and  The  Battle  of  the  Bays  (1892). 


TO  AN  OLD  FOGEY 
(Who  Contends  that  Christmas  is  Played  Out) 

O  frankly  bald  and  obviously  stout! 

And  so  you  find  that  Christmas  as  a  fete 
Dispassionately  viewed,  is  getting  out 
Of  date. 
45 


Owen  Seaman 

The  studied  festal  air  is  overdone; 

The  humour  of  it  grows  a  little  thin ; 
You  fail,  in  fact,  to  gather  where  the  fun 
Comes  in. 

Visions  of  very  heavy  meals  arise 

That  tend  to  make  your  organism  shiver; 
Roast  beef  that  irks,  and  pies  that  agonise 
The  liver; 

Those  pies  at  which  you  annually  wince, 

Hearing  the  tale  how  happy  months  will  follow 
Proportioned  to  the  total  mass  of  mince 
You  swallow. 

Visions  of  youth  whose  reverence  is  scant, 

Who  with  the  brutal  verve  of  boyhood's  prime 
Insist  on  being  taken  to  the  pant- 
-omime. 

Of  infants,  sitting  up  extremely  late, 

Who  run  you  on  toboggans  down  the  stair; 
Or  make  you  fetch  a  rug  and  simulate 
A  bear. 

This  takes  your  faultless  trousers  at  the  knees, 

The  other  hurts  them  rather  more  behind; 
And  both  effect  a  fracture  in  your  ease 
Of  mind. 


Owen  Seaman 

My  good  dyspeptic,  this  will  never  do; 

Your  weary  withers  must  be  sadly  wrung! 
Yet  once  I  well  believe  that  even  you 
Were  young. 

Time  was  when  you  devoured,  like  other  boys, 

Plum-pudding  sequent  on  a  turkey-hen; 
With  cracker-mottos  hinting  of  the  joys 
Of  men. 

Time  was  when  'mid  the  maidens  you  would  pull 

The  fiery  raisin  with  profound  delight; 
When  sprigs  of  mistletoe  seemed  beautiful 
And   right. 

Old  Christmas  changes  not!     Long,  long  ago 

He  won  the  treasure  of  eternal  youth; 

Yours  is  the  dotage — if  you  want  to  know 

The  truth. 

Come,  now,  I'll  cure  your  case,  and  ask  no  fee: — 

Make  others'  happiness  this  once  your  own ; 
All  else  may  pass:  that  joy  can  never  be 
Outgrown ! 


THOMAS  OF  THE  LIGHT  HEART 

Facing  the  guns,  he  jokes  as  well 
As  any  Judge  upon  the  Bench; 

Between  the  crash  of  shell  and  shell 
His  laughter  rings  along  the  trench; 
47 


Owen  Seaman 

He  seems  immensely  tickled  by  a 
Projectile  while  he  calls  a  "  Black  Maria." 

He  whistles  down  the  day-long  road, 
And,  \vhen  the  chilly  shadows  fall 

And  heavier  hangs  the  weary  load, 
Is  he  down-hearted?  Not  at  all. 

'Tis  then  he  takes  a  light  and  airy 

View  of  the  tedious  route  to  Tipperary.1 

His  songs  are  not  exactly  hymns; 

He  never  learned  them  in  the  choir; 
And  yet  they  brace  his  dragging  limbs 

Although  they  miss  the  sacred  fire; 
Although  his  choice  and  cherished  gems 
Do  not  include  "  The  Watch  upon  the 
Thames." 

He  takes  to  fighting  as  a  game; 

He  does  no  talking,  through  his  hat, 
Of  holy  missions;  all  the  same 

He  has  his  faith — be  sure  of  that; 
He'll  not  disgrace  his  sporting  breed, 
Nor  play  what  isn't  cricket.     There's  his 
creed. 

1 "  It's  a  long  way  to   Tipperary"  the  most  popular  song  01 
the  Allied  armies  during  the  World's  War. 


Henry  Newbolt 

Henry  Newbolt  was  born  at  Bilston  in  1862.  His  early  work 
was  frankly  imitative  of  Tennyson;  he  even  attempted  to  add 
to  the  Arthurian  legends  with  a  drama  in  blank  verse  entitled 
Mordred  (1895).  It  was  not  until  he  wrote  his  sea-ballads 
that  he  struck  his  own  note.  With  the  publication  of  Admirals 
All  (1897)  his  fame  was  widespread.  The  popularity  of  his 
lines  was  due  not  so  much  to  the  subject-matter  of  Newbolt's 
verse  as  to  the  breeziness  of  his  music,  the  solid  beat  of  rhythm, 
the  vigorous  swing  of  his  stanzas. 

In  1898  Newbolt  published  The  Island  Race,  which  contains 
about  thirty  more  of  his  buoyant  songs  of  the  sea.  Besides 
being  a  poet,  Newbolt  has  written  many  essays  and  his  critical 
volume,  A  New  Study  of  English  Poetry  (1917),  is  a  collection 
of  articles  that  are  both  analytical  and  alive. 


:. 


DRAKE'S  DRUM 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  an'  a  thousand  mile  away, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?) 
lung  atween  the  round  shot  in  Nombre  Dios  Bay, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
arnder  lumes  the  island,  yarnder  lie  the  ships, 

Wi'  sailor  lads  a-dancin'  heel-an'-toe, 
An'  the  shore-lights  flashin',  an'  the  night-tide  dashin' 
He  sees  et  arl  so  plainly  as  he  saw  et  long  ago. 

Drake  he  was  a  Devon  man,  an'  ruled  the  Devon  seas, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 
Rovin'   tho'  his  death  fell,  he  went  wi'  heart  at  ease, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe, 
"  Take  my  drum  to  England,  hang  et  by  the  shore, 

Strike  et  when  your  powder's  runnin'  low; 
If  the  Dons  sight  Devon,  I'll  quit  the  port  o'  Heaven, 

An'  drum   them  up  the  Channel  as  we   drummed 
them  long  ago." 

49 


Henry  Newbolt 

Drake  he's  in  his  hammock  till  the  great  Armadas  come, 

(Capten,  art  tha  sleepin'  there  below?), 
Slung  atween  the  round  shot,  listenin'  for  the  drum, 

An'  dreamin'  arl  the  time  o'  Plymouth  Hoe. 
Call  him  on  the  deep  sea,  call  him  up  the  Sound, 

Call  him  when  ye  sail  to  meet  the  foe; 
Where  the  old  trade's  plyin'  an'  the  old  flag  flyin', 

They  shall  find  him,  ware  an'  wakin',  as  they  found 
him  long  ago. 


Arthur  Symons 

Born  in  1865,  Arthur  Symons'  first  few  publications  revealed 
an  intellectual  rather  than  an  emotional  passion.  Those  vol- 
umes were  full  of  the  artifice  of  the  period,  but  Symons's  tech- 
nical skill  and  frequent  analysis  often  saved  the  poems  from 
complete  decadence.  His  later  books  are  less  imitative;  the 
influence  of  Verlaine  and  Baudelaire  is  not  so  apparent;  the 
sophistication  is  less  cynical,  the  sensuousness  more  restrained. 
His  various  collections  of  essays  and  stories  reflect  the  same 
peculiar  blend  of  rich  intellectuality  and  perfumed  romanticism 
that  one  finds  in  his  most  characteristic  poems. 

Of  his  many  volumes  in  prose,  Spiritual  Adventures  (1905), 
while  obviously  influenced  by  Walter  Pater,  is  by  far  the  most 
original;  a  truly  unique  volume  of  psychological  short  stories. 
The  best  of  his  poetry  up  to  1902  was  collected  in  two  volumes, 
Poems,  published  by  John  Lane  Co.  The  Fool  of  the  World 
appeared  in  1907. 


IN  THE  WOOD  OF  FINVARA 

I  have  grown  tired  of  sorrow  and  human  tears; 
Life  is  a  dream  in  the  night,  a  fear  among  fears, 
A  naked  runner  lost  in  a  storm  of  spears. 
50 


Arthur  Symons 

I  have  grown  tired  of  rapture  and  love's  desire; 
Love  is  a  flaming  heart,  and  its  flames  aspire 
Till  they  cloud  the  soul  in  the  smoke  of  a  windy 
fire. 

I  would  wash  the  dust  of  the  world  in  a  soft  green 

flood ; 

Here  between  sea  and  sea,  in  the  fairy  wood, 
I  have  found  a  delicate,  wave-green  solitude. 

Here,  in  the  fairy  wood,  between  sea  and  sea, 
I  have  heard  the  song  of  a  fairy  bird  in  a  tree, 
And  the  peace  that  is  not  in  the  world  has  flown 
to  me. 


MODERN  BEAUTY 

I  am  the  torch,  she  saith,  and  what  to  me 
If  the  moth  die  of  me?     I  am  the  flame 
Of  Beauty,  and  I  burn  that  all  may  see 
Beauty,  and  I  have  neither  joy  nor  shame, 
But  live  with  that  clear  light  of  perfect  fire 
Which  is  to  men  the  death  of  their  desire. 

I  am  Yseult  and  Helen,  I  have  seen 
Troy  burn,  and  the  most  loving  knight  lie  dead. 
The  world  has  been  my  mirror,  time  has  been 
My  breath  upon  the  glass;  and  men  have  said, 
Age  after  age,  in  rapture  and  despair, 
Love's  poor  few  words,  before  my  image  there. 
51 


Arthur  Symons 

I  live,  and  am  immortal ;  in  my  eyes 

The  sorrow  of  the  world,  and  on  my  lips 

The  joy  of  life,  mingle  to  make  me  wise; 

Yet  now  the  day  is  darkened  with  eclipse: 

Who  is  there  still  lives  for  beauty?     Still  am  I 

The  torch,  but  where 's  the  moth  that  still  dares  die? 


William  Butler  Yeats 

Born  at  Sandymount,  Dublin,  in  1865,  the  son  of  John  B. 
Yeats,  the  Irish  artist,  the  greater  part  of  William  Butler 
Yeats*  childhood  was  spent  in  Sligo.  Here  he  became  imbued 
with  the  power  and  richness  of  native  folk-lore;  he  drank  in  the 
racy  quality  through  the  quaint  fairy  stories  and  old  wives' 
tales  of  the  Irish  peasantry.  (Later  he  published  a  collection 
of  these  same  stories.) 

It  was  in  the  activities  of  a  "  Young  Ireland "  society  that 
Yeats  became  identified  with  the  new  spirit;  he  dreamed  of  a 
national  poetry  that  would  be  written  in  English  and  yet  would 
be  definitely  Irish.  In  a  few  years  he  became  one  of  the 
leaders  in  the  Celtic  revival.  He  worked  incessantly  for  the 
cause,  both  as  propagandist  and  playwright;  and,  though  his 
mysticism  at  times  seemed  the  product  of  a  cult  rather  than  a 
Celt,  his  symbolic  dramas  were  acknowledged  to  be  full  of  a 
haunting,  other-world  spirituality.  (See  Preface.)  The  Hour 
Glass  (1904),  his  second  volume  of  "Plays  for  an  Irish 
Theatre,"  includes  his  best  one-act  dramas  with  the  exception 
of  his  unforgettable  The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire  (1894).  The 
Wind  Among  the  Reeds  (1899)  contains  several  of  his  most 
beautiful  and  characteristic  poems. 

Others  who  followed  Yeats  have  intensified  the  Irish  drama; 
they  have  established  a  closer  contact  between  the  peasant  and 
poet.  No  one,  however,  has  had  so  great  a  part  in  the  shaping 
of  modern  drama  in  Ireland  as  Yeats.  His  Deirdre  (1907),  a 
beautiful  retelling  of  the  great  Gaelic  legend,  is  far  more  dra- 
matic than  the  earlier  plays;  it  is  particularly  interesting  to 

52 


William  Butler  Yeats 

read    with    Synge's   more    idiomatic   play   on   the   same   theme, 
Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows. 

The  poems  of  Yeats  which   are  quoted   here  reveal  him  in 
his  most  lyric  and  musical  vein.  - 


THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE 


N 


I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made; 
ine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the  honey  bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 


, 


And    I   shall   have   some   peace   there,    for   peace   comes 

dropping  slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where  the 

cricket  sings; 

There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple  glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 


will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 
I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the  shore; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements  gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  OLD  MOTHER 

I  rise  in  the  dawn,  and  I  kneel  and  blow 
Till  the  seed  of  the  fire  flicker  and  glow. 
And  then  I  must  scrub,  and  bake,  and  sweep, 
11  stars  are  beginning  to  blink  and  peep ; 
53 


William  Butler  Yeats 

But  the  young  lie  long  and  dream  in  their  bed 

Of  the  matching  of  ribbons,  the  blue  and  the  red, 

And  their  day  goes  over  in  idleness, 

And  they  sigh  if  the  wind  but  lift  up  a  tress. 

While  I  must  work,  because  I  am  old 

And  the  seed  of  the  fire  gets  feeble  and  cold. 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS 

A  Queen  was  beloved  by  a  jester, 
And  once  when  the  owls  grew  still 

He  made  his  soul  go  upward 
And  stand  on  her  window  sill. 

In  a  long  and  straight  blue  garment, 
It  talked  before  morn  was  white, 

And  it  had  grown  wise  by  thinking 
Of  a  footfall  hushed  and  light. 

But  the  young  queen  would  not  listen ; 

She  rose  in  her  pale  nightgown, 
She  drew  in  the  brightening  casement 

And  pushed  the  brass  bolt  down. 

He  bade  his  heart  go  to  her, 

When  the  bats  cried  out  no  more, 

In  a  red  and  quivering  garment 
It  sang  to  her  through  the  door. 
54 


William  Butler  Yeats 

The  tongue  of  it  sweet  with  dreaming 
Of  a  flutter  of  flower-like  hair, 

But  she  took  up  her  fan  from  the  table 
And  waved  it  off  on  the  air. 

'  I've  cap  and  bells,'  he  pondered, 
'  I  will  send  them  to  her  and  die/ 

And  as  soon  as  the  morn  had  whitened 
He  left  them  where  she  went  by. 

She  laid  them  upon  her  bosom, 

Under  a  cloud  of  her  hair, 
And  her  red  lips  sang  them  a  love  song. 

The  stars  grew  out  of  the  air. 

She  opened  her  door  and  her  window, 
And  the  heart  and  the  soul  came  through, 

To  her  right  hand  came  the  red  one, 
To  her  left  hand  came  the  blue. 

They  set  up  a  noise  like  crickets, 

A  chattering  wise  and  sweet, 
And  her  hair  was  a  folded  flower, 

And  the  quiet  of  love  her  feet. 


AN  OLD  SONG  RESUNG 

Down  by  the  salley  gardens  my  love  and  I  did  meet; 
She  passed  the  salley  gardens  with  little  snow-white  feet. 
She  bid  me  take  love  easy,  as  the  leaves  grow  on  the  tree; 
But  I,  being  young  and  foolish,  with  her  would  not  agree. 

55 


William  Butler  Yeats 

In  a  field  by  the  river  my  love  and  I  did  stand, 
And  on  my  leaning  shoulder  she  laid  her  snow-white  hand. 
She  bid  me  take  life  easy,  as  the  grass  grows  on  the  weirs ; 
But  I  was  young  and  foolish,  and  now  am  full  of  tears. 


Hud  yard  Kipling 

Born  at  Bombay,  India,  December  30,  1865,  Rudyard  Kipling, 
the  author  of  a  dozen  contemporary  classics,  was  educated  in 
England.  He  returned,  however,  to  India  and  took  a  position 
on  the  staff  of  "  The  Lahore  Civil  and  Military  Gazette," 
writing  for  the  Indian  press  until  about  1890,  when  he  went  to 
England,  where  he  has  lived  ever  since,  with  the  exception  of 
a  short  sojourn  in  America. 

Even  while  he  was  still  in  India  he  achieved  a  popular  as 
well  as  a  literary  success  with  his  dramatic  and  skilful  tales, 
sketches  and  ballads  of  Anglo-Indian  life. 

Soldiers  Three  (1888)  was  the  first  of  six  collections  of  short 
stories  brought  out  in  "  Wheeler's  Railway  Library."  They 
were  followed  by  the  far  more  sensitive  and  searching  Plain 
Tales  from  the  Hills,  Under  the  Deodars  and  The  Phantom 
'Rikshaw,  which  contains  two  of  the  best  and  most  convincing 
ghost-stories  in  recent  literature. 

These  tales,  however,  display  only  one  side  of  Kipling's  ex- 
traordinary talents.  As  a  writer  of  children's  stories,  he  has 
few  living  equals.  Wee  Willie  Winkic,  which  contains  that 
stirring  and  heroic  fragment  "  Drums  of  the  Fore  and  Aft,"  is 
only  a  trifle  less  notable  than  his  more  obviously  juvenile  col- 
lections. Just-So  Stories  and  the  two  Jungle  Books  (prose 
interspersed  with  lively  rhymes)  are  classics  for  young  people 
of  all  ages.  Kim,  the  novel  of  a  super-Mowgli  grown  up, 
is  a  more  mature  masterpiece. 

Considered  solely  as  a  poet  (see  Preface)  he  is  one  of  the 
most  vigorous  and  unique  figures  of  his  time.  The  spirit  of 
romance  surges  under  his  realities.  His  brisk  lines  conjure  up 
the  tang  of  a  countryside  in  autumn,  the  tingle  of  salt  spray, 
the  rude  sentiment  of  ruder  natures,  the  snapping  of  a  banner, 

56 


Rudyard  Kipling 

the  lurch  and  rumble  of  the  sea.  His  poetry  is  woven  of  the 
stuff  of  myths;  but  it  never  loses  its  hold  on  actualities.  Kip- 
ling himself  in  his  poem  "The  Benefactors"  (from  The  Years 
Between  [1919])  writes: 

Ah!     What  avails  the  classic  bent 
And  what  the  cultured  word, 

Against  the  undoctored  incident 

That  actually  occurred? 
Kipling  won  the  Nobel  Prize  for  Literature  in  1907.  His 
varied  poems  have  finally  been  collected  in  a  remarkable  one- 
volume  Inclusive  Edition  (1885-1918),  an  indispensable  part  of 
any  student's  library.  This  gifted  and  prolific  creator,  whose 
work  was  affected  by  the  war,  has  frequently  lapsed  into  bom- 
bast and  a  journalistic  imperialism.  At  his  best  he  is  unfor- 
gettable, standing  mountain-high  above  his  host  of  imitators. 
His  home  is  at  Burwash,  Sussex. 

GUNGA  DIN 

You  may  talk  o'  gin  an'  beer 

When  you're  quartered  safe  out  'ere, 

An'  you're  sent  to  penny-fights  an'  Aldershot  it; 

But  if  it  gomes  to  slaughter 

You  will  do  your  work  on  water, 

An*  you'll  lick  the  bloomin'  boots  of  'im  that's 

got  it. 

Now  in  Injia's  sunny  clime, 
Where  I  used  to  spend  my  time 
A-servin'  of  'Er  Majesty  the  Queen, 
Of  all  them  black-faced  crew 
The  finest  man  I  knew 
Was  our  regimental  bhisti*  Gunga  Din. 

1  The  bhisti,  or  water-carrier,  attached  to  regiments  in  India, 
is  often  one  of  the  most  devoted  of  the  Queen's  servants.  He  is 
also  appreciated  by  the  men. 

57 


Rudyard  Kipling 

It  was  "  Din!     Din!     Din! 

You  limping  lump  o'  brick-dust,  Gunga 

Din! 

Hi!  slippy  hitherao! 
Water,  get  it!    Panee  lao!  l 
You  squidgy-nosed  old  idol,  Gunga  Din!  " 

The  uniform  'e  wore 

Was  nothin'  much  before, 

An*  rather  less  than  'arf  o*  that  be'ind, 

For  a  twisty  piece  o'  rag 

An'  a  goatskin  water-bag 

Was  all  the  field-equipment  'e  could  find. 

When  the  sweatin'  troop-train  lay 

In  a  sidin'  through  the  day, 

Where  the  'eat  would  make  your  bloomin'  eye- 
brows crawl, 

We  shouted  "  Harry  By!  "  2 

Till  our  throats  were  bricky-dry, 

Then  we  wopped  'im  'cause  'e  couldn't  serve 
us  all. 

It  was  "Din!    Din!    Din! 

You  'eathen,  where  the  mischief  'ave  you 

been? 

You  put  some  juldee  3  in  it, 
Or  I'll  marrow*  you  this  minute, 
If  you  don't  fill  up  my  helmet,  Gunga 

Din!" 

1  Bring  water  swiftly.  3  Speed. 

2  Tommy  Atkins'  equivalent  for  "  O  Brother!  *          4  Hit  you. 

58 


Rudyard  Kipling 

'E  would  dot  an'  carry  one 

Till  the  longest  day  was  done, 

An*  'e  didn't  seem  to  know  the  use  o'  fear. 

If  we  charged  or  broke  or  cut, 

You  could  bet  your  bloomin*  nut, 

'E'd  be  waitin'  fifty  paces  right  flank  rear. 

With  'is  mussick  l  on  'is  back, 

'E  would  skip  with  our  attack, 

An'  watch  us  till  the  bugles  made  "  Retire." 

An'  for  all  'is  dirty  'ide, 

'E  was  white,  clear  white,  inside 

When  'e  went  to  tend  the  wounded  under  fire! 

It  was  "Din!    Din!    Din!" 

With  the  bullets  kickin'  dust-spots  on 

the  green. 

When  the  cartridges  ran  out, 
You  could  'ear  the  front-files  shout : 
"  Hi!  ammunition-mules  an'  Gunga 

Din!" 

I  sha'n't  forgit  the  night 

When  I  dropped  be'ind  the  fight 

With  a  bullet  where  my  belt-plate  should 

'a'  been. 

I  was  chokin'  mad  with  thirst, 
An'  the  man  that  spied  me  first 
Was  our  good  old  grinnin',  gruntin'  Gunga 

Din. 

1  Water-skin. 
59 


Rudyard  Kipling 

'E  lifted  up  my  'ead, 

An1  'e  plugged  me  where  I  bled, 

An1  'e  guv  me  'arf-a-pint  o'  water — green ; 

It  was  crawlin'  an*  it  stunk, 

But  of  all  the  drinks  I've  drunk, 

I'm  gratefullest  to  one  from  Gunga  Din. 


It  was  "Din!     Din!     Din! 

'Ere's  a  beggar  with  a  bullet  through 

'is  spleen ; 
'E's  chawin'  up  the  ground  an'  'e's 

kickin'  all  around: 
For  Gawd's  sake,  git  the  water,  Gunga 

Din!" 


'E  carried  me  away 

To  where  a  dooli  lay, 

An'  a  bullet  come  an'  drilled  the  beggar  clean. 

'E  put  me  safe  inside, 

An'  just  before  'e  died: 

"  I  'ope  you  liked  your  drink,"  sez  Gunga 

Din. 

So  I'll  meet  'im  later  on 
In  the  place  where  'e  is  gone — 
Where  it's  always  double  drill  and  no  canteen; 
'E'll  be  squattin'  on  the  coals 
Givin'  drink  to  pore  damned  souls, 
An'  I'll  get  a  swig  in  Hell  from  Gunga  Din! 
60 


Rudyard  Kipling 

Din!    Din!    Din! 

You  Lazarushian-leather  Gunga  Din! 
Tho'  I've  belted  you  an'  flayed  you, 
By  the  livin'  Gawd  that  made  you, 
You're  a  better  man  than  I  am,  Gunga 
Din! 


THE  RETURN  l 

Peace  is  declared,  and  I  return 

To  'Ackneystadt,  but  not  the  same; 
Things  'ave  transpired  which  made  me  learn 

The  size  and  meanin'  of  the  game. 
I  did  no  more  than  others  did, 

I  don't  know  where  the  change  began; 
I  started  as  a  average  kid, 

I  finished  as  a  thinkin'  man. 

//  England  was  what  England  seems 
An    not  the  England  of  our  dreams. 
But  only  putty,  brass,  an    paint, 

fOw  quick  we'd  drop  'er!    But  she  ain't! 

Before  my  gappin'  mouth  could  speak 

I  'card  it  in  my  comrade's  tone ; 
I  saw  it  on  my  neighbour's  cheek 

Before  I  felt  it  flush  my  own. 

1  From  The  Five  Nations  by  Rudyard  Kipling.     Copyright  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.  and  A.  P.  Watt  &  Son. 

61 


Rudyard  Kipling 

An'  last  it  come  to  me — not  pride, 

Nor  yet  conceit,  but  on  the  'ole 
(If  such  a  term  may  be  applied), 

The  makin's  of  a  bloomin'  soul. 

Rivers  at  night  that  cluck  an'  jeer, 

Plains  which  the  moonshine  turns  to  sea, 
Mountains  that  never  let  you  near, 

An'  stars  to  all  eternity; 
An'  the  quick-breathin'  dark  that  fills 

The  'ollows  of  the  wilderness, 
When  the  wind  worries  through  the  'ills — 

These  may  'ave  taught  me  more  or  less. 

Towns  without  people,  ten  times  took, 

An'  ten  times  left  an'  burned  at  last; 
An'  starvin'  dogs  that  come  to  look 

For  owners  when  a  column  passed; 
An'  quiet,  'omesick  talks  between 

Men,  met  by  night,  you  never  knew 
Until — 'is  face — by  shellfire  seen— 

Once — an'  struck  off.    They  taught  me,  too. 

The  day's  lay-out — the  mornin'  sun 

Beneath  your  'at-brim  as  you  sight; 
The  dinner-'ush  from  noon  till  one, 

An'  the  full  roar  that  lasts  till  night; 
An'  the  pore  dead  that  look  so  old 

An'  was  so  young  an  hour  ago, 
An'  legs  tied  down  before  they're  cold — 

These  are  the  things  which  make  you  know. 
62 


Rudyard  Kipling 

Also  Time  runnin'  into  years — 

A  thousand  Places  left  be'ind — 
An*  Men  from  both  two  'emispheres 

Discussin'  things  of  every  kind; 
So  much  more  near  than  I  'ad  known, 

So  much  more  great  than  I  'ad  guessed — 
An'  me,  like  all  the  rest,  alone — 

But  reachin'  out  to  all  the  rest! 

So  'ath  it  come  to  me — not  pride, 

Nor  yet  conceit,  but  on  the  'ole 
(If  such  a  term  may  be  applied), 

The  makin's  of  a  bloomin'  soul. 
But  now,  discharged,  I  fall  away 

To  do  with  little  things  again.   .    .    . 
Gawd,  'oo  knows  all  I  cannot  say, 

Look  after  me  in  Thamesf ontein ! 

//  England  was  what  England  seems 
An    not  the  England  of  our  dreams, 

But  only  putty,  brass,  an    paint, 

'Ow  quick  wed  chuck  fer!    But  she  ain't! 


THE  CONUNDRUM  OF  THE  WORKSHOPS 

When  the  flush  of  a  newborn  sun  fell  first  on  Eden's 

green  and  gold, 
Our  father  Adam  sat  under  the  Tree  and  scratched  with 

a  stick  in  the  mold ; 

63 


Rudyard  Kipling 

And  the  first  rude  sketch  that  the  world  had  seen  was 

joy  to  his  mighty  heart, 
Till  the  Devil  whispered  behind  the  leaves :  "  It's  pretty, 

but  is  it  Art?" 

Wherefore  he   called   to   his  wife   and   fled   to   fashion 

his  work  anew — 
The  first  of  his  race  who  cared  a  fig  for  the  first,  most 

dread  review; 
And  he  left  his  lore  to  the  use  of  his  sons — and  that  was 

a  glorious  gain 
When  the  Devil  chuckled:  "  Is  it  Art?"  in  the  ear  of 

the  branded  Cain. 

They  builded  a  tower  to  shiver  the  sky  and  wrench  the 

stars  apart, 
Till  the  Devil  grunted  behind  the  bricks:  "  It's  striking, 

but  is  it  Art?" 
The  stone  was  dropped  by  the  quarry-side,  and  the  idle 

derrick  swung, 
While  each  man  talked  of  the  aims  of  art,  and  each  in 

an  alien  tongue. 

They  fought  and  they  talked  in  the  north  and  the  south, 

they  talked  and  they  fought  in  the  west, 
Till  the  waters  rose  on  the  jabbering  land,  and  the  poor 

Red  Clay  had  rest — 
Had  rest  till  the  dank  blank-canvas  dawn  when  the  dove 

was  preened  to  start, 
And  the  Devil  bubbled  below  the  keel:  "  It's  human,  but 

is  it  Art?" 

64 


Rudyard  Kipling 

The  tale  is  old  as  the  Eden  Tree — as  new  as  the  new- 
cut  tooth — 

For  each  man  knows  ere  his  lip-thatch  grows  he  is 
master  of  Art  and  Truth; 

And  each  man  hears  as  the  twilight  neaio,  to  the  beat  of 
his  dying  heart, 

The  Devil  drum  on  the  darkened  pane:  "You  did  it, 
but  was  it  Art?  " 

We  have  learned  to  whittle  the  Eden  Tree  to  the  shape 

of  a  surplice-peg, 
We  have  learned  to  bottle  our  parents  twain  in  the  yolk 

of  an  addled  egg, 
We  know  that  the  tail  must  wag  the  dog,  as  the  horse 

is  drawn  by  the  cart; 
But  the  Devil  whoops,  as  he  whooped  of  old:  "  It's  clever, 

but  is  it  Art?" 

When  the  flicker  of  London's  sun  falls  faint  on  the  club- 
room's  green  and  gold, 

The  sons  of  Adam  sit  them  down  and  scratch  with  their 
pens  in  the  mold — 

They  scratch  with  their  pens  in  the  mold  of  their  graves, 
and  the  ink  and  the  anguish  start 

When  the  Devil  mutters  behind  the  leaves:  "  It's  pretty, 
but  is  it  art?  " 

Now,  if  we  could  win  to  the  Eden  Tree  where  the  four 

great  rivers  flow, 
And  the  wreath  of  Eve  is  red  on  the  turf  as  she  left  it 

long  ago, 

65 


Rudyard  Kipling 

And  if  we  could  come  when  the  sentry  slept,  and  softly 

scurry  through, 
By  the  favor  of  God  we  might  know  as  much — as  our 

father  Adam  knew. 

AN  ASTROLOGER'S  SONG  * 

To  the  Heavens  above  us 

O  look  and  behold 
The  Planets  that  love  us 

All  harnessed  in  gold! 
What  chariots,  what  horses 

Against  us  shall  bide 
While  the  Stars  in  their  courses 

Do  fight  on  our  side  ? 

All  thought,  all  desires, 

That  are  under  the  sun, 
Are  one  with  their  fires, 

As  we  also  are  one: 
All  matter,  all  spirit, 

All  fashion,  all  frame, 
Receive  and  inherit 

Their  strength  from  the  same. 

(Oh,  man  that  deniest 

All  power  save  thine  own, 
Their  power  in  the  highest 

Is  mightily  shown. 

iFrom   Rewards    and    Fairies    by    Rudyard    Kipling.    Copy- 
right by  Doubleday,  Page  and  Co.  and  A.  P.  Watt  &  Son. 

66 


Rudyard  Kipling 

Not  less  in  the  lowest 
That  power  is  made  clear., 

Oh,  man,  if  thou  knowest, 
What  treasure  is  here!) 

Earth  quakes  in  her  throes 

And  we  wonder  for  why! 
But  the  blind  planet  knows 

When  her  ruler  is  nigh ; 
And,  attuned  since  Creation 

To  perfect  accord, 
She  thrills  in  her  station 

And  yearns  to  her  Lord. 

The  waters  have  risen, 

The  springs  are  unbound — 
The  floods  break  their  prison, 

And  ravin  around. 
No  rampart  withstands  'em, 

Their  fury  will  last, 
Till  the  Sign  that  commands  'em 

Sinks  low  or  swings  past. 

Through  abysses  unproven 

And  gulfs  beyond  thought, 
Our  portion  is  woven, 

Our  burden  is  brought. 
Yet  They  that  prepare  it, 

Whose  Nature  we  share, 
Make  us  who  must  bear  it 

Well  able  to  bear. 


Rudyard  Kipling 

Though  terrors  overtake  us 

We'll  not  be  afraid. 
No  power  can  unmake  us 

Save  that  which  has  made. 
Nor  yet  beyond  reason 

Or  hope  shall  we  fall- 
All  things  have  their  season, 

And  Mercy  crowns  all ! 

Then,  doubt  not,  ye  fearful— 

The  Eternal  is  King — 
Up,  heart,  and  be  cheerful, 

And   lustily  sing: — 
What  chariots,  what  horses 

Against  us  shall  bide 
While  the  Stars  in  their  courses 

Do  fight  on  our  side? 


Richard  Le  Gallienne 

Richard  Le  Gallienne,  who,  in  spite  of  his  long  residence  in 
the  United  States,  must  be  considered  an  English  poet,  was  born 
at  Liverpool  in  1866.  He  entered  on  a  business  career  soon 
after  leaving  Liverpool  College,  but  gave  up  commercial  life 
to  become  a  man  of  letters  after  five  or  six  years. 

His  early  work  was  strongly  influenced  by  the  artificialities 
of  the  aesthetic  movement  (see  Preface)  ;  the  indebtedness  to 
Oscar  Wilde  is  especially  evident.  A  little  later  Keats  was  the 
dominant  influence,  and  English  Poems  (1892)  betray  how  deep 
were  Le  Gallienne's  admirations.  His  more  recent  poems  in 
The  Lonely  Dancer  (1913)  show  a  keener  individuality  and  a 
finer  lyrical  passion.  His  prose  fancies  are  well  known — par- 

68 


Richard  Le  Galllenne 

ticularly   The  Book  Bills  of  Narcissus   and  the  charming   and 
high-spirited  fantasia,  The  Quest  of  the  Golden  Girl. 

Le  Gallienne  came  to  America  about  1905  and  has  lived  ever 
since  in  Rowayton,  Conn.,  and  New  York  City. 


A  BALLAD  OF  LONDON 

Ah,  London !  London !  our  delight, 
Great  flower  that  opens  but  at  night, 
Great  City  of  the  midnight  sun, 
Whose  day  begins  when  day  is  done. 

Lamp  after  lamp  against  the  sky 
Opens  a  sudden  beaming  eye, 
Leaping  alight  on  either  hand, 
The  iron  lilies  of  the  Strand. 

Like  dragonflies,  the  hansoms  hover, 
With  jeweled  eyes,  to  catch  the  lover; 
The  streets  are  full  of  lights  and  loves, 
Soft  gowns,  and  flutter  of  soiled  doves. 

The  human  moths  about  the  light 
Dash  and  cling  close  in  dazed  delight, 
And  burn  and  laugh,  the  world  and  wife, 
For  this  is  London,  this  is  life ! 

Upon  thy  petals  butterflies, 
3ut  at  thy  root,  some  say,  there  lies, 
A  world  of  weeping  trodden  things, 
Poor  worms  that  have  not  eyes  or  wings. 
69 


Richard  Le  Gallienne 

From  out  corruption  of  their  woe 
Springs  this  bright  flower  that  charms  us  so, 
Men  die  and  rot  deep  out  of  sight 
To  keep  this  jungle-flower  bright. 

Paris  and  London,  World-Flowers  twain 
Wherewith  the  World-Tree  blooms  again, 
Since  Time  hath  gathered  Babylon, 
And  withered  Rome  still  withers  on. 

Sidon  and  Tyre  were  such  as  ye, 
How  bright  they  shone  upon  the  tree! 
But  Time  hath  gathered,  both  are  gone, 
And  no  man  sails  to  Babylon. 


REGRET 

One  asked  of  regret, 

And  I  made  reply: 
To  have  held  the  bird, 

And  let  it  fly; 
To  have  seen  the  star 

For  a  moment  nigh, 
And  lost  it 

Through  a  slothful  eye ; 
To  have  plucked  the  flower 

And  cast  it  by  ; 
To  have  one  only  hope — 

To  die. 

70 


Lionel  Johnson 

Born  in  1867,  Lionel  Johnson  received  a  classical  education 
at  Oxford,  and  his  poetry  is  a  faithful  reflection  of  his  studies 
in  Greek  and  Latin  literatures.  Though  he  allied  himself  with 
the  modern  Irish  poets,  his  Celtic  origin  is  a  literary  myth; 
Johnson,  having  been  converted  to  Catholicism  in  1891,  became 
imbued  with  Catholic  and,  later,  with  Irish  traditions.  His 
verse,  while  sometimes  strained  and  over-decorated,  is  chastely 
designed,  rich  and,  like  that  of  the  Cavalier  poets  of  the  seven- 
tenth  century,  mystically  devotional.  Poems  (1895)  contains  his 
best  work.  Johnson  died  in  1902. 


MYSTIC  AND  CAVALIER 

Go  from  me :  I  am  one  of  those  who  fall. 
What!  hath  no  cold  wind  swept  your  heart  at  all, 
In  my  sad  company?    Before  the  end, 
Go  from  me,  dear  my  friend ! 

Yours  are  the  victories  of  light:  your  feet 
Rest  from  good  toil,  where  rest  is  brave  and  sweet: 
But  after  warfare  in  a  mourning  gloom, 
I  rest  in  clouds  of  doom. 

Have  you  not  read  so,  looking  in  these  eyes? 
Is  it  the  common  light  of  the  pure  skies, 
Lights  up  their  shadowy  depths?    The  end  is  set: 
Though  the  end  be  not  yet. 

When  gracious  music  stirs,  and  all  is  bright, 
And  beauty  triumphs  through  a  courtly  night; 
When  I  too  joy,  a  man  like  other  men : 
Yet,  am  I  like  them,  then? 

71 


Lionel  Johnson 

And  in  the  battle,  when  the  horsemen  sweep 
Against  a  thousand  deaths,  and  fall  on  sleep: 
Who  ever  sought  that  sudden  calm,  if  I 
Sought  not?  yet  could  not  die! 

Seek  with  thine  eyes  to  pierce  this  crystal  sphere : 
Canst  read  a  fate  there,  prosperous  and  clear? 
Only  the  mists,  only  the  weeping  clouds, 
Dimness  and  airy  shrouds. 

Beneath,  what  angels  are  at  work?    What  powers 
Prepare  the  secret  of  the  fatal  hours? 
See !  the  mists  tremble,  and  the  clouds  are  stirred : 
When  comes  the  calling  word  ? 

The  clouds  are  breaking  from  the  crystal  ball, 
Breaking  and  clearing:  and  I  look  to  fall. 
When  the  cold  winds  and  airs  of  portent  sweep, 
My  spirit  may  have  sleep. 

O  rich  and  sounding  voices  of  the  air! 
Interpreters  and  prophets  of  despair: 
Priests  of  a  fearful  sacrament!  I  come, 
To  make  with  you  mine  home. 


Lionel  Johnson 

TO  A  TRAVELLER 

The  mountains,  and  the  lonely  death  at  last 
Upon  the  lonely  mountains:  O  strong  friend! 
The  wandering  over,  and  the  labour  passed, 

Thou  art  indeed  at  rest: 

Earth  gave  thee  of  her  best, 

That  labour  and  this  end. 

Earth  was  thy  mother,  and  her  true  son  thou: 
Earth  called  thee  to  a  knowledge  of  her  ways, 
Upon  the  great  hills,  up  the  great  streams :  now 

Upon  earth's  kindly  breast 

Thou  art  indeed  at  rest: 

Thou,  and  thine  arduous  days. 

Fare  thee  well,  O  strong  heart!    The  tranquil  night 
Looks  calmly  on  thee:  and  the  sun  pours  down 
His  glory  over  thee,  O  heart  of  might! 
Earth  gives  thee  perfect  rest: 
Earth,  whom  thy  swift  feet  pressed : 
Earth,  whom  the  vast  stars  crown. 


Ernest  Doivson 

Ernest  Dowson  was  born  at  Belmont  Hill  in  Kent  in  1867. 
His  great-uncle  was  Alfred  Domett  (Browning's  "Waring"), 
who  was  at  one  time  Prime  Minister  of  New  Zealand.  Dowson, 
practically  an  invalid  all  his  life,  was  reckless  with  himself 

73 


Ernest  Dowson 

and,  as  disease  weakened  him  more  and  more,  hid  himself  in 
miserable  surroundings;  for  almost  two  years  he  lived  in  sordid 
supper-houses  known  as  "  cabmen's  shelters."  He  literally 
drank  himself  to  death. 

His  delicate  and  fantastic  poetry  was  an  attempt  to  escape 
from  a  reality  too  big  and  brutal  for  him.  His  passionate  lyric, 
"I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara!  in  my  fashion,"  a 
triumph  of  despair  and  disillusion,  is  an  outburst  in  which 
Dowson  epitomized  himself — "  One  of  the  greatest  lyrical  poems 
of  our  time,"  writes  Arthur  Symons,  "  in  it  he  has  for  once  said 
everything,  and  he  has  said  it  to  an  intoxicating  and  perhaps 
immortal  music." 

Dowson  died  obscure  in  1900,  one  of  the  finest  of  modern 
minor  poets.  His  life  was  the  tragedy  of  a  weak  nature  buf- 
feted by  a  strong  and  merciless  environment. 


TO  ONE  IN  BEDLAM 

With  delicate,  mad  hands,  behind  his  sordid  bars, 
Surely  he  hath  his  posies,  which  they  tear  and  twine; 
Those  scentless  wisps  of  straw  that,  miserable,  line 
His  strait,  caged  universe,  whereat  the  dull  world  stares. 

Pedant  and  pitiful.    O,  how  his  rapt  gaze  wars 
With  their  stupidity!     Know  they  what  dreams  divine 
Lift  his  long,  laughing  reveries  like  enchanted  wine, 
And  make  his  melancholy  germane  to  the  stars'? 

O  lamentable  brother!  if  those  pity  thee, 
Am  I  not  fain  of  all  thy  lone  eyes  promise  me; 
Half  a  fool's  kingdom,  far  from  men  who  sow  and  reap, 
All  their  days,  vanity?     Better  then  mortal  flowers, 
Thy  moon-kissed  roses  seem :  better  than  love  or  sleep, 
The  star-crowned  solitude  of  thine  oblivious  hours! 

74 


Ernest  Dowson 


YOU  WOULD  HAVE  UNDERSTOOD  ME 

You  would  have  understood  me,  had  you  waited ; 

I  could  have  loved  you,  dear !  as  well  as  he : 
Had  we  not  been  impatient,  dear!  and  fated 
Always  to  disagree. 

What  is  the  use  of  speech?     Silence  were  fitter: 
Lest  we  should  still  be  wishing  things  unsaid. 
Though  all  the  words  we  ever  spake  were  bitter, 
Shall  I  reproach  you,  dead? 

Nay,  let  this  earth,  your  portion,  likewise  cover 

All  the  old  anger,  setting  us  apart: 
Always,  in  all,  in  truth  was  I  your  lover; 
Always,  I  held  your  heart. 

I  have  met  other  women  who  were  tender, 

As  you  were  cold,  dear!  with  a  grace  as  rare. 
Think  you,  I  turned  to  them,  or  made  surrender, 
I  who  had  found  you  fair? 

Had  we  been  patient,  dear!  ah,  had  you  waited, 

I  had  fought  death  for  you,  better  than  he : 
But  from  the  very  first,  dear!  we  were  fated 
Always  to  disagree. 

Late,  late,  I  come  to  you,  now  death  discloses 

Love  that  in  life  was  not  to  be  our  part: 
On  your  low  lying  mound  between  the  roses, 
Sadly  I  cast  my  heart. 

75 


Ernest  Dowson 

I  would  not  waken  you :  nay !  this  is  fitter ; 

Death  and  the  darkness  give  you  unto  me; 
Here  we  who  loved  so,  were  so  cold  and  bitter, 
Hardly  can  disagree. 

"A.  E." 

(George  William  Russell) 

At  Durgan,  a  tiny  town  in  the  north  of  Ireland,  George 
William  Russell  was  born  in  1867.  He  moved  to  Dublin  when 
he  was  10  years  old  and,  as  a  young  man,  helped  to  form 
the  group  that  gave  rise  to  the  Irish  Renascence — the  group  of 
which  William  Butler  Yeats,  Doctor  Douglas  Hyde,  Katharine 
Tynan  and  Lady  Gregory  were  brilliant  members.  Besides 
being  a  splendid  mystical  poet,  "  A.  E."  is  a  painter  of  note, 
a  fiery  patriot,  a  distinguished  sociologist,  a  public  speaker,  a 
student  of  economics  and  one  of  the  heads  of  the  Irish  Agri- 
cultural Association. 

The  best  of  his  poetry  is  in  Homeward  Songs  by  the  Way 
(1894)  and  The  Earth  Breath  and  Other  Poems.  Yeats  has 
spoken  of  these  poems  as  "  revealing  in  all  things  a  kind  of 
scented  flame  consuming  them  from  within." 

THE  GREAT  BREATH 

Its  edges  foamed  with  amethyst  and  rose, 
Withers  once  more  the  old  blue  flower  of  day: 
There  where  the  ether  like  a  diamond  glows, 
Its  petals  fade  away. 

A  shadowy  tumult  stirs  the  dusky  air; 
Sparkle  the  delicate  dews,  the  distant  snows; 
The  great  deep  thrills — for  through  it  everywhere 
The  breath  of  Beauty  blows. 
76 


"A.  E." 

I  saw  how  all  the  trembling  ages  past, 
Moulded  to  her  by  deep  and  deeper  breath, 
Near'd  to  the  hour  when  Beauty  breathes  her  last 
And  knows  herself  in  death. 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 

Far  up  the  dim  twilight  fluttered 
Moth-wings  of  vapour  and  flame: 

The  lights  danced  over  the  mountains, 
Star  after  star  they  came. 

The  lights  grew  thicker  unheeded, 
For  silent  and  still  were  we ; 

Our  hearts  were  drunk  with  a  beauty 
Our  eyes  could  never  see. 


Stephen  Phillips 

Born  in  1868,  Stephen  Phillips  is  best  known  as  the  author  of 
Herod  (1900),  Paola  and  Francesco.  (1899),  and  Ulysses 
(1902)  ;  a  poetic  playwright  who  succeeded  in  reviving,  for  a 
brief  interval,  the  blank  verse  drama  on  the  modern  stage. 
Hailed  at  first  with  extravagant  and  almost  incredible  praise, 
Phillips  lived  to  see  his  most  popular  dramas  discarded  and 
his  new  ones,  such  as  Pietro  of  Siena  (1910),  unproduced  and 
unnoticed. 

Phillips  failed  to  "restore"  poetic  drama  because  he  was, 
first  of  all,  a  lyric  rather  than  a  dramatic  poet.  In  spite  of 
certain  moments  of  rhetorical  splendor,  his  scenes  are  spectacu- 
lar instead  of  emotional;  his  inspiration  is  too  often  derived 
from  other  models.  He  died  in  1915. 

77 


Stephen  Phillips 

FRAGMENT  FROM  "  HEROD  " 

Herod  speaks: 

I  dreamed  last  night  of  a  dome  of  beaten  gold 

To  be  a  counter-glory  to  the  Sun. 

There  shall  the  eagle  blindly  dash  himself, 

There  the  first  beam  shall  strike,  and  there  the  moon 

Shall  aim  all  night  her  argent  archery; 

And  it  shall  be  the  tryst  of  sundered  stars, 

The  haunt  of  dead  and  dreaming  Solomon; 

Shall  send  a  light  upon  the  lost  in  Hell, 

And  flashings  upon  faces  without  hope. — 

And  I  will  think  in  gold  and  dream  in  silver, 

Imagine  in  marble  and  conceive  in  bronze, 

Till  it  shall  dazzle  pilgrim  nations 

And  stammering  tribes  from  undiscovered  lands, 

Allure  the  living  God  out  of  the  bliss, 

And  all  the  streaming  seraphim  from  heaven. 

BEAUTIFUL  LIE  THE  DEAD 

Beautiful  lie  the  dead; 

Clear  comes  each  feature ; 
Satisfied  not  to  be, 

Strangely  contented. 

Like  ships,  the  anchor  dropped, 

Furled  every  sail  is; 
Mirrored  with  all  their  masts 

In  a  deep  water. 

78 


Stephen  Phillips 


A  DREAM 

My  dead  love  came  to  me,  and  said : 
1  God  gives  me  one  hour's  rest, 

To  spend  with  thee  on  earth  again: 
How  shall  we  spend  it  best  ?  ' 

*  Why,  as  of  old/  I  said ;  and  so 

We  quarrelled,  as  of  old: 
But,  when  I  turned  to  make  my  peace, 

That  one  short  hour  was  told. 

Laurence  Binyon 

Laurence  Binyon  was  born  at  Lancaster,  August  10,  1869,  a 
cousin  of  Stephen  Phillips;  in  Pnmavera  (1890)  their  early 
poems  appeared  together.  Binyon's  subsequent  volumes  showed 
little  distinction  until  he  published  London  Visions,  which,  in  an 
enlarged  edition  in  1908,  revealed  a  gift  of  characterization 
and  a  turn  of  speech  in  surprising  contrast  to  his  previous 
academic  Lyrical  Poems  (1894).  His  Odes  (1901)  contains  his 
ripest  work;  two  poems  in  particular,  "The  Threshold"  and 
"  The  Bacchanal  of  Alexander,"  are  glowing  and  unusually 
spontaneous. 

Binyon's  power  has  continued  to  grow;  age  has  given  his 
verse  a  new  sharpness.  "  The  House  That  Was,"  one  of  his 
most  recent  poems,  appeared  in  The  London  Mercury,  Novem- 
ber, 1919. 

A  SONG 

For  Mercy,  Courage,  Kindness,  Mirth, 
There  is  no  measure  upon  earth. 
Nay,  they  wither,  root  and  stem, 
If  an  end  be  set  to  them. 
79 


T.  Sturge  Moore 

tinctive  and  intimate.  Among  his  many  volumes,  the  most 
outstanding  are  The  Vinedresser  and  Other  Poems  (1899),  A 
Sicilian  Idyll  (1911)  and  The  Sea  Is  Kind  (1914). 


THE  DYING  SWAN 

O  silver-throated  Swan 
Struck,  struck!     A  golden  dart 
Clean  through  thy  breast  has  gone 
Home  to  thy  heart. 
Thrill,  thrill,  O  silver  throat! 
O   silver   trumpet,    pour 
Love  for  defiance  back 
On  him  who  smote! 
And  brim,  brim  o'er 
With  love:  and  ruby-dye  thy  track 
Down  thy  last  living  reach 
Of  river,  sail  the  golden  light- 
Enter  the  sun's  heart — even  teach 
O  wondrous-gifted  Pain,  teach  Thou 
The  God  of  love,  let  him  learn  how ! 

SILENCE  SINGS 

So  faint,  no  ear  is  sure  it  hears, 
So  faint  and  far; 
So  vast  that  very  near  appears 
My  voice,  both  here  and  in  each  star 
Unmeasured  leagues  do  bridge  between; 
Like  that  which  on  a  face  is  seen 
Where  secrets  are; 
82 


T.  Sturge  Moore 

Sweeping,  like  veils  of  lofty  balm, 
Tresses  unbound 
O'er  desert  sand,  o'er  ocean  calm, 
I  am  wherever  is  not  sound ; 
And,  goddess  of  the  truthful  face, 
My  beauty  doth  instil  its  grace 
That  joy  abound. 


William  H.  Davies 

According  to  his  own  biography,  William  H.  Davies  was 
born  in  a  public-house  called  Church  House  at  Newport,  in 
the  County  of  Monmouthshire,  April  20,  1870,  of  Welsh  parents. 
He  was,  until  Bernard  Shaw  "  discovered  "  him,  a  cattleman,  a 
berry-picker,  a  panhandler — in  short,  a  vagabond.  In  a  preface 
to  Davies'  second  book,  The  Autobiography  of  a  Super-Tramp 
(1906),  Shaw  describes  how  the  manuscript  came  into  his 
hands: 

"  In  the  year  1905  I  received  by  post  a  volume  of  poems 
by  one  William  H.  Davies,  whose  address  was  The  Farm 
House,  Kensington,  S.  E.  I  was  surprised  to  learn  that  there 
was  still  a  farmhouse  left  in  Kensington;  for  I  did  not  then 
suspect  that  the  Farm  House,  like  the  Shepherdess  Walks  and 
Nightingale  Lane  and  Whetstone  Parks  of  Bethnal  Green  and 
Holborn,  is  so  called  nowadays  in  irony,  and  is,  in  fact,  a 
doss-house,  or  hostelry,  where  single  men  can  have  a  night's 
lodging,  for,  at  most,  sixpence.  .  .  .  The  author,  as  far  as  I 
could  guess,  had  walked  into  a  printer's  or  stationer's  shop; 
handed  in  his  manuscript;  and  ordered  his  book  as  he  might 
have  ordered  a  pair  of  boots.  It  was  marked  '  price,  half  a 
crown.'  An  accompanying  letter  asked  me  very  civilly  if  I 
required  a  half-crown  book  of  verses;  and  if  so,  would  I 
please  send  the  author  the  half  crown:  if  not,  would  I  return 
the  book.  This  was  attractively  simple  and  sensible.  I  opened 

83 


William  H.  Davles 

the  book,  and  was  more  puzzled  than  ever;  for  before  I  had 
read  three  lines  I  perceived  that  the  author  was  a  real  poet. 
His  work  was  not  in  the  least  strenuous  or  modern;  there  was 
indeed  no  sign  of  his  ever  having  read  anything  otherwise  than 
as  a  child  reads.  .  .  .  Here,  I  saw,  was  a  genuine  innocent, 
writing  odds  and  ends  of  verse  about  odds  and  ends  of  things; 
living  quite  out  of /the  world  in  wjiich  such  things  are  usually 
done,  and  knowing  no  better  (or  rather  no  worse)  than  to  get 
his  book  made  by  the  appropriate  craftsman  and  hawk  it  round 
like  any  other  ware." 

It  is  more  than  likely  that  Davies'  first  notoriety  as  a  tramp- 
poet  who  had  ridden  the  rails  in  the  United  States  and  had 
had  his  right  foot  cut  off  by  a  train  in  Canada,  obscured  his 
merits  as  a  genuine  singer.  Even  his  early  The  Soul's  Destroyer 
(1907)  revealed  that  simplicity  which  is  as  naif  as  it  is 
strange.  The  volumes  that  followed  are  more  clearly  melo- 
dious, more  like  the  visionary  wonder  of  Blake,  more  artistically 
artless. 

With  the  exception  of  "  The  Villain,"  which  has  not  yet  ap- 
peared in  book  form,  the  following  poems  are  taken  from  The 
Collected  Poems  of  W.  H.  Davies  (1916)  with  the  permission 
of  the  publisher,  Alfred  A.  Knopf. 


DAYS  TOO  SHORT 

When  primroses  are  out  in  Spring, 

And  small,  blue  violets  come  between; 
When  merry  birds  sing  on  boughs  green, 

And  rills,  as  soon  as  born,  must  sing; 

When  butterflies  will  make  side-leaps, 
As  though  escaped  from  Nature's  hand 
Ere  perfect  quite ;  and  bees  will  stand 

Upon  their  heads  in  fragrant  deeps; 

84 


William  H.  Davies 

When  small  clouds  are  so  silvery  white 
Each  seems  a  broken  rimmed  moon — 
When  such  things  are,  this  world  too  soon, 

For  me,  doth  wear  the  veil  of  Night. 


THE  MOON 

Thy  beauty  haunts  me  heart  and  soul, 
Oh,  thou  fair  Moon,  so  close  and  bright; 

Thy  beauty  makes  me  like  the  child 
That  cries  aloud  to  own  thy  light : 

The  little  child  that  lifts  each  arm 

To  press  thee  to  her  bosom  warm. 

Though  there  are  birds  that  sing  this  night 
With  thy  white  beams  across  their  throats, 

Let  my  deep  silence  speak  for  me 

More  than  for  them  their  sweetest  notes: 

Who  worships  thee  till  music  fails, 

Is  greater  than  thy  nightingales. 


THE  VILLAIN 

While  joy  gave  clouds  the  light  of  stars, 
That  beamed  where'er  they  looked  ; 

And  calves  and  lambs  had  tottering  knees, 
Excited,  while  they  sucked; 

85 


William  H.  Davles 

While  every  bird  enjoyed  his  song, 
Without  one  thought  of  harm  or  wrong- 
I  turned  my  head  and  saw  the  wind, 

Not  far  from  where  I  stood, 
Dragging  the  corn  by  her  golden  hair, 

Into  a  dark  and  lonely  wood. 


THE  EXAMPLE 

Here's  an   example  from 

A  Butterfly; 
That  on  a  rough,  hard  rock 

'  Happy  can  lie; 
Friendless  and  all  alone 
On  this  unsweetened  stone. 

Now  let  my  bed  be  hard, 

No  care  take  I ; 
Fll  make  my  joy  like  this 

Small  Butterfly; 
Whose  happy  heart  has  power 
To  make  a  stone  a  flower. 


Hilaire  Belloc 

Hilaire  Belloc,  who  has  been  described  as  "  a  Frenchman,  an 
Englishman,  an  Oxford  man,  a  country  gentleman,  a  soldier,  a 
satirist,  a  democrat,  a  novelist,  and  a  practical  journalist," 
was  born  July  27,  1870.  After  leaving  school  he  served  as  a 

86 


Hi lair e  Belloc 

driver  in  the  8th  Regiment  of  French  Artillery  at  Toul  Meurthe- 
et-Moselle,  being  at  that  time  a  French  citizen.  He  was  natural- 
ized as  a  British  subject  somewhat  later,  and  in  1906  he  entered 
the  House  of  Commons  as  Liberal  Member  for  South  Salford. 
As  an  author,  he  has  engaged  in  multiple  activities.  He  has 
written  three  satirical  novels,  one  of  which,  Mr.  Clutterbuck's 
Election,  sharply  exposes  British  newspapers  and  underground 
politics.  His  Path  to  Rome  (1902)  is  a  high-spirited  and  ever- 
delightful  travel  book  which  has  passed  through  many  editions. 
His  historical  studies  and  biographies  of  Robespierre  and  Marie 
Antoinette  (1909)  are  classics  of  their  kind.  As  a  poet  he  is 
only  somewhat  less  engaging.  His  Verses  (1910)  is  a  rather 
brief  collection  of  poems  on  a  wide  variety  of  themes.  Although 
his  humorous  and  burlesque  stanzas  are  refreshing,  Belloc  is 
most  himself  when  he  writes  either  of  malt  liquor  or  his  beloved 
Sussex.  Though  his  religious  poems  are  full  of  a  fine  romanti- 
cism, "  The  South  Country "  is  the  most  pictorial  and  persua- 
sive of  his  serious  poems.  His  poetic  as  well  as  his  spiritual 
kinship  with  G.  K.  Chesterton  is  obvious. 


THE  SOUTH  COUNTRY 

When  I  am  living  in  the  Midlands 

That  are  sodden  and  unkind, 
I  light  my  lamp  in  the  evening: 

My  work  is  left  behind ; 
And  the  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 

Come  back  into  my  mind. 

The  great  hills  of  the  South  Country 

They  stand  along  the  sea; 
And  it's  there  walking  in  the  high  woods 

That  I  could  wish  to  be, 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Walking  along  with  me. 

87 


Hilaire  Belloc 

The  men  that  live  in  North  England 

I  saw  them  for  a  day: 
Their  hearts  are  set  upon  the  waste  fells, 

Their  skies  are  fast  and  grey; 
From  their  castle-walls  a  man  may  see 

The  mountains  far  away. 

The  men  that  live  in  West  England 

They  see  the  Severn  strong, 
A-rolling  on  rough  water  brown 

Light  aspen  leaves  along. 
They  have  the  secret  of  the  Rocks, 

And  the  oldest  kind  of  song. 

But  the  men  that  live  in  the  South  Country 

Are  the  kindest  and  most  wise, 
They  get  their  laughter  from  the  loud  surf, 

And  the  faith  in  their  happy  eyes 
Comes  surely  from  our  Sister  the  Spring 

When  over  the  sea  she  flies ; 
The  violets  suddenly  bloom  at  her  feet, 

She  blesses  us  with  surprise. 

I  never  get  between  the  pines 

But  I  smell  the  Sussex  air; 
Nor  I  never  come  on  a  belt  of  sand 

But  my  home  is  there. 
And  along  the  sky  the  line  of  the  Downs 

So  noble  and  so  bare. 
88 


Hilalre  Belloc 

A  lost  thing  could  I  never  find, 

Nor  a  broken  thing  mend: 
And  I  fear  I  shall  be  all  alone 

When  I  get  towards  the  end. 
Who  will  there  be  to  comfort  me 

Or  who  will  be  my  friend? 

I  will  gather  and  carefully  make  my  friends 
Of  the  men  of  the  Sussex  Weald ; 

They  watch  the  stars  from  silent  folds, 
They  stiffly  plough  the  field. 

By  them  and  the  God  of  the  South  Country 
My  poor  soul  shall  be  healed. 

If  I  ever  become  a  rich  man, 

Or  if  ever  I  grow  to  be  old, 
I  will  build  a  house  with  deep  thatch 

To  shelter  me  from  the  cold, 
And  there  shall  the  Sussex  songs  be  sung 

And  the  story  of  Sussex  told. 

I  will  hold  my  house  in  the  high  wood 

Within  a  walk  of  the  sea, 
And  the  men  that  were  boys  when  I  was  a  boy 

Shall  sit  and  drink  with  me. 


Anthony  C.  Deane 

Anthony  C.  Deane  was  born  in  1870  and  was  the  Seatonian 
prizeman  in  1905  at  Clare  College,  Cambridge.  He  has  been 
Vicar  of  All  Saints,  Ennismore  Gardens,  since  1916.  His  long 

89 


Anthony  C.  Deane 

list  of  light  verse  and  essays  includes  several  excellent  paro- 
dies, the  most  delightful  being  found  in  his  New  Rhymes  for 
Old  (1901). 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BILLYCOCK 

It  was  the  good  ship  Billycock,  with  thirteen  men  aboard, 
Athirst  to  grapple  with  their  country's  foes, — 

A  crew,  'twill  be  admitted,  not  numerically  fitted 
To  navigate  a  battleship  in  prose. 

It  was  the  good  ship  Billycock  put  out  from  Plymouth 

Sound, 

While  lustily  the  gallant  heroes  cheered, 
And  all  the  air  was  ringing  with  the  merry  bo'sun's  sing- 
ing, 
Till  in  the  gloom  of  night  she  disappeared. 

But  when  the  morning  broke  on  her,  behold,   a  dozen 
ships, 

A  dozen  ships  of  France  around  her  lay, 
(Or,  if  that  isn't  plenty,  I  will  gladly  make  it  twenty), 

And  hemmed  her  close  in  Salamander  Bay. 

Then  to  the  Lord  High  Admiral  there  spake  a  cabin-boy: 
"  Methinks,"  he  said,  "  the  odds  are  somewhat  great, 

And,  in  the  present  crisis,  a  cabin-boy's  advice  is 
That  you  and  France  had  better  arbitrate!  " 
90 


Anthony  C.  Deane 

"Pooh!  "  said  the  Lord  High  Admiral,  and  slapped  his 
manly  chest, 

"  Pooh!    That  would  be  both  cowardly  and  wrong; 
Shall  I,  a  gallant  fighter,  give  the  needy  ballad-writer 

No  suitable  material  for  song?  " 

"  Nay — is  the  shorthand-writer  here? — I  tell  you,  one  and 
all, 

I  mean  to  do  my  duty,  as  I  ought; 
With  eager  satisfaction  let  us  clear  the  decks  for  action 

And  fight  the  craven  Frenchmen!"     So  they  fought. 

And  (after  several  stanzas  which  as  yet  are  incomplete, 

Describing  all  the  fight  in  epic  style) 
When   the  Billycock   was  going,   she'd    a   dozen   prizes 
towing 

(Or  twenty,  as  above)  in  single  file! 

Ah,  long  in  glowing  English  hearts  the  story  will  remain, 

The  memory  of  that  historic  day, 

And,   while  we  rule   the  ocean,   we  will   picture  with 
emotion 

The  Billycock  in  Salamander  Bay! 

P.S. — I've  lately  noticed  that  the  critics — who,  I  think, 

In  praising  my  productions  are  remiss — 
Quite   easily   are   captured,    and   profess   themselves  en- 
raptured, 

By  patriotic  ditties  such  as  this, 
91 


Anthony  C.  Deane 

For  making  which  you  merely  take  some  dauntless  Eng- 
lishmen, 

Guns,  heroism,  slaughter,  and  a  fleet — 
Ingredients  you  mingle  in  a  metre  with  a  jingle, 

And  there  you  have  your  masterpiece  complete! 

Why,  then,  with  labour  infinite,  produce  a  book  of  verse 
To  languish  on  the  "  All  for  Twopence  "  shelf  ? 

The  ballad  bold  and  breezy  comes  particularly  easy — 
I  mean  to  take  to  writing  it  myself! 


A  RUSTIC  SONG 

Oh,  I  be  vun  of  the  useful  troibe 

O'  rustic  volk,  I  be; 
And  writin'  gennelmen  dii  descroibe 

The  doin's  o'  such  as  we; 
I  don't  knaw  mooch  o'  corliflower  plants, 

I  can't  tell  'oes  from  trowels, 
But  'ear  me  mix  ma  consonants, 

An'  moodle  oop  all  ma  vowels! 

I  talks  in  a  wunnerful  dialect 

That  vew  can  hunderstand, 
'Tis  Yorkshire-Zummerzet,   I  expect, 

With  a  dash  o'  the  Oirish  brand ; 
Sometimes  a  bloomin'  flower  of  speech 

I  picks  from  Cockney  spots, 
And  when  releegious  truths  I  teach, 

Obsairve  ma  richt  gude  Scots! 
92 


Anthony  C.  Deane 

In  most  of  the  bukes,  'twas  once  the  case 

I  'adn't  got  much  to  do, 
I  blessed  the  'eroine's  purty  face, 

An'  I  seed  the  'ero  through; 
But  now,  I'm  juist  a  pairsonage! 

A  power  o'  bukes  there  be 
Which  from  the  start  to  the  very  last  page 

Entoirely  deal  with  me! 

The  wit  or  the  point  oj  what  I  spakes 

Ye've  got  to  find  if  ye  can ; 
A  wunnerful  difference  spellin'  makes 

In  the  'ands  of  a  competent  man! 
I  mayn't  knaw  mooch  o'  corliflower  plants, 

I  mayn't  knaw  'oes  from  trowels, 
But  I  does  ma  wark,  if  ma  consonants 

Be  properly  mixed  with  ma  vowrels! 


J.  M.  Synge 

The  most  brilliant  star  of  the  Celtic  revival  was  born  at 
Rathfarnham,  near  Dublin,  in  1871.  As  a  child  in  Wicklow, 
he  was  already  fascinated  by  the  strange  idioms  and  the  rhyth- 
mic speech  he  heard  there,  a  native  utterance  which  was  his 
greatest  delight  and  which  was  to  be  rich  material  for  his  great- 
est work.  He  did  not  use  this  folk-language  merely  as  he 
heard  it.  He  was  an  artist  first  and  last,  and  as  an  artist 
he  bent  and  shaped  the  rough  material,  selecting  with  great 
fastidiousness,  so  that  in  his  plays  every  speech  is,  as  he  himself 
declared  all  good  speech  should  be,  "  as  fully  flavored  as  a 
nut  or  apple."  Even  in  The  Tinker's  Wedding  (1907),  pos- 

93 


/.  M.  Synge 

sibly    the    least    important    of    his    plays,    one    is    arrested    by 
snatches  like: 

"That's  a  sweet  tongue  you  have,  Sarah  Casey;  but  if 
sleep's  a  grand  thing,  it's  a  grand  thing  to  be  waking  up 
a  day  the  like  of  this,  when  there's  a  warm  sun  in  it,  and 
a  kind  air,  and  you'll  hear  the  cuckoos  singing  and  crying 
out  on  the  top  of  the  hill." 

For  some  time,  Synge's  career  was  uncertain.  He  went  to 
Germany  half  intending  to  become  a  professional  musician. 
There  he  studied  the  theory  of  music,  perfecting  himself  mean- 
while in  Gaelic  and  Hebrew,  winning  prizes  in  both  of  these 
languages.  Yeats  found  him  in  France  in  1898  and  advised 
him  to  go  to  the  Aran  Islands,  to  live  there  as  if  he  were  one 
of  the  people.  "  Express  a  life,"  said  Yeats,  "  that  has  never 
found  expression."  Synge  went.  He  became  part  of  the  life 
of  Aran,  living  upon  salt  fish  and  eggs,  talking  Irish  for  the 
most  part  but  listening  also  to  that  beautiful  English  which, 
to  quote  Yeats  again,  "  has  grown  up  in  Irish-speaking  dis- 
tricts and  takes  its  vocabulary  from  the  time  of  Malory  and  of 
the  translators  of  the  Bible,  but  its  idiom  and  vivid  metaphor 
from  Irish."  The  result  of  this  close  contact  was  five  of  the 
greatest  poetic  prose  dramas  not  only  of  his  own  generation, 
but  of  several  generations  preceding  it.  (See  Preface.) 

In  Riders  to  the  Sea  (1903),  The  Well  of  the  Saints  (1905), 
and  The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World  (1907)  we  have  a 
richness  of  imagery,  a  new  language  startling  in  its  vigor,  a 
wildness  and  passion  that  contrast  strangely  with  the  suave 
mysticism  and  delicate  spirituality  of  his  associates  in  the  Irish 
Theatre. 

Synge's  Poems  and  Translations  (1910),  a  volume  which  was 
not  issued  until  after  his  death,  contains  not  only  his  few  hard 
and  earthy  verses,  but  also  Synge's  theory  of  poetry.  The 
translations,  which  have  been  rendered  in  a  highly  intensified 
prose,  are  as  racy  as  anything  in  his  plays;  his  versions  of 
Villon  and  Petrarch  are  remarkable  for  their  adherence  to  the 
original  and  still  radiate  the  poet's  own  personality. 

Synge  died,  just  as  he  was  beginning  to  attain  fame,  at  a 
private  hospital  in  Dublin  March  24,  1909. 

94 


J.  M.  Synge 

BEG-INNISH 

Bring  Kateen-beug  and  Maurya  Jude 
To  dance  in  Beg-Innish,1 
And  when  the  lads  (they're  in  Dunquin) 
Have  sold  their  crabs  and  fish, 
Wave  fawny  shawls  and  call  them  in, 
And  call  the  little  girls  who  spin, 
And  seven  weavers  from  Dunquin, 
To  dance  in  Beg-Innish. 

I'll  play  you  jigs,  and  Maurice  Kean, 

Where  nets  are  laid  to  dry, 

I've  silken  strings  would  draw  a  dance 

From  girls  are  lame  or  shy; 

Four  strings  I've  brought  from  Spain  and 

France 

To  make  your  long  men  skip  and  prance, 
Till  stars  look  out  to  see  the  dance 
Where  nets  are  laid  to  dry. 

We'll  have  no  priest  or  peeler  in 
To  dance  in  Beg-Innish; 
But  we'll  have  drink  from  M'riarty  Jim 
Rowed  round  while  gannets  fish, 
A  keg  with  porter  to  the  brim, 
That  every  lad  may  have  his  whim, 
Till  we  up  sails  with  M'riarty  Jim 
And  sail  from  Beg-Innish. 

1  (The  accent  is  on  the  last  syllable.) 
95 


/.  M.  Synge 

A  TRANSLATION  FROM  PETRARCH 
(He  is  Jealous  of  the  Heavens  and  the  Earth) 

What  a  grudge  I  am  bearing  the  earth  that  has  its  arms 
about  her,  and  is  holding  that  face  away  from  me,  where 
I  was  finding  peace  from  great  sadness. 

What  a  grudge  I  am  bearing  the  Heavens  that  are 
after  taking  her,  and  shutting  her  in  with  greediness,  the 
Heavens  that  do  push  their  bolt  against  so  many. 

What  a  grudge  I  am  bearing  the  blessed  saints  that 
have  got  her  sweet  company,  that  I  am  always  seeking; 
and  what  a  grudge  I  am  bearing  against  Death,  that  is 
standing  in  her  two  eyes,  and  will  not  call  me  with  a 
word. 

TO  THE  OAKS  OF  GLENCREE 

My  arms  are  round  you,  and  I  lean 
Against  you,  while  the  lark 
Sings  over  us,  and  golden  lights,  and  green 
Shadows  are  on  your  bark. 

There'll  come  a  season  when  you'll  stretch 
Black  boards  to  cover  me; 
Then  in  Mount  Jerome  I  will  lie,  poor  wretch, 
With  worms  eternally. 


Nora  Hopper  Chesson 

Nora  Hopper  was  born  in  Exeter  on  January  2,  1871,  and 
married  W.  H.  Chesson,  a  well-known  writer,  in  1901.  Al- 
though the  Irish  element  in  her  work  is  acquired  and  incidental, 
there  is  a  distinct  if  somewhat  fitful  race  consciousness  in  Bal- 
lads in  Prose  (1894)  and  Under  Quickened  Boughs  (1896). 
She  died  suddenly  April  14,  1906. 


A  CONNAUGHT  LAMENT 

I  will  arise  and  go  hence  to  the  west, 

And  dig  me  a  grave  where  the  hill-winds  call; 

But  O  were  I  dead,  were  I  dust,  the  fall 

Of  my  own  love's  footstep  would  break  my  rest! 


My  heart  in  my  bosom  is  black  as  a  sloe! 
I  heed  not  cuckoo,  nor  wren,  nor  swallow: 
Like  a  flying  leaf  in  the  sky's  blue  hollow 
The  heart  in  my  breast  is,  that  beats  so  low. 

Because  of  the  words  your  lips  have  spoken, 
(O  dear  black  head  that  I  must  not  follow) 
My  heart  is  a  grave  that  is  stripped  and  hollow, 
As  ice  on  the  water  my  heart  is  broken. 

0  lips  forgetful  and  kindness  fickle, 

The  swallow  goes  south  with  you :  I  go  west 
Where  fields  are  empty  and  scythes  at  rest. 

1  am  the  poppy  and  you  the  sickle ; 
My  heart  is  broken  within  my  breast. 

97 


Eva  Gore-Booth 

Eva  Gore-Booth,  the  second  daughter  of  Sir  Henry  Gore- 
Booth  and  the  sister  of  Countess  Marcievicz,  was  born  in  Sligo, 
Ireland,  in  1872.  She  first  appeared  in  "A.  E."  's  anthology, 
New  Songs,  in  which  so  many  of  the  modern  Irish  poets  first 
came  forward. 

Her  initial  volume,  Poems  (1898),  showed  practically  no  dis- 
tinction— not  even  the  customary  "  promise."  But  The  One  and 
the  Many  (1904.)  and  The  Sorrowful  Princess  (1907)  revealed 
the  gift  of  the  Celtic  singer  who  is  half  mystic,  half  minstrel. 
Primarily  philosophic,  her  verse  often  turns  to  lyrics  as  haunt- 
ing as  the  two  examples  here  reprinted. 


THE  WAVES  OF  BREFFNY 

The  grand  road  from  the  mountain  goes  shining  to  the 

sea, 

And  there  is  traffic  on  it  and  many  a  horse  and  cart, 
But  the  little  roads  of  Cloonagh  are  dearer  far  to  me 
And  the  little  roads  of  Cloonagh  go  rambling  through 
my  heart. 

A  great  storm  from  the  ocean  goes  shouting  o'er  the  hill, 
And  there  is  glory  in  it;  and  terror  on  the  wind: 

But  the  haunted  air  of  twilight  is  very  strange  and  still, 
And  the  little  winds  of  twilight  are  dearer  to  my  mind. 

The  great  waves  of  the  Atlantic  sweep  storming  on  their 

way, 

Shining  green  and  silver  with  the  hidden  herring  shoal ; 
But  the  little  waves  of  Breffny  have  drenched  my  heart 

in  spray, 

And  the  little  waves  of  Breffny  go  stumbling  through 
my  soul. 


Eva  Gore-Booth 

WALLS 

Free  to  all  souls  the  hidden  beauty  calls, 

The  sea  thrift  dwelling  on  her  spray-swept  height, 

The  lofty  rose,  the  low-grown  aconite, 

The  gliding  river  and  the  stream  that  brawls 

Down  the  sharp  cliffs  with  constant  breaks  and  falls 

All  these  are  equal  in  the  equal  light — 

All  waters  mirror  the  one  Infinite. 

God  made  a  garden,  it  was  men  built  walls; 
But  the  wide  sea  from  men  is  wholly  freed ; 
Freely  the  great  waves  rise  and  storm  and  break, 
Nor  softlier  go  for  any  landlord's  need, 
Where  rhythmic  tides  flow  for  no  miser's  sake 
And  none  hath  profit  of  the  brown  sea-weed, 
But  all  things  give  themselves,  yet  none  may  take. 

Mo  Ira  O'Neill 


Moira  O'Neill  is  known  chiefly  by  a  remarkable  little  collec- 
tion of  only  twenty-five  lyrics,  Songs  from  the  Glens  of  Antrim 
(1900),  simple  tunes  as  unaffected  as  the  peasants  of  whom 
she  sings.  The  best  of  her  poetry  is  dramatic  without  being 
theatrical;  melodious  without  falling  into  the  tinkle  of  most 
"  popular  "  sentimental  verse. 

A  BROKEN  SONG 

'  Where  am  I  from?9    From  the  green  hills  of  Erin. 
' Have  I  no  song  then?'    My  songs  are  all  sung. 
'  What  o'  my  love?'    'Tis  alone  I  am  farin'. 
Old  grows  my  heart,  an*  my  voice  yet  is  young. 

99 


Moira  O'Neill 

'  If  she  was  tall? '    Like  a  king's  own  daughter. 
'  If  she  was  fair? '     Like  a  mornin'  o'  May. 
When  she'd  come  laughin'  'twas  the  runnin'  wather, 
When  she'd  come  blushin'  'twas  the  break  o'  day. 

'  Where  did  she  dwell? '  Where  one'st  I  had  my  dwellin'. 
'  Who  loved  her  best? '    There's  no  one  now  will  know. 
'  Where  is  she  gone?'    Och,  why  would  I  be  tellin'! 
Where  she  is  gone  there  I  can  never  go. 


BEAUTY'S  A  FLOWER 

Youth's  for  an  hour, 

Beauty's  a  flower, 

But  love  is  the  jewel  that  wins  the  world. 

Youth's  for  an  hour,  an'  the  taste  o'  life  is  sweet, 

Ailes  was  a  girl  that  stepped  on  two  bare  feet; 

In  all  my  days  I  never  seen  the  one  as  fair  as  she, 

I'd  have  lost  my  life  for  Ailes,  an'  she  never  cared  for  me. 

Beauty's  a  flower,  an'  the  days  o'  life  are  long, 
There's  little  knowin'  who  may  live  to  sing  another  song; 
For  Ailes  was  the  fairest,  but  another  is  my  wife, 
An*  Mary — God  be  good  to  her! — is  all  I  love  in  life. 

Youth's  for  an  hour, 
Beauty's  a  flower, 

But  love  is  the  jewel  that  wins  the  world. 
100 


JolmMcCrae       - 

John  McCrae  was  born  in  Guelph,  Ontario,  Canada,  in  1872. 
He  was  graduated  in  arts  in  1894  an^  m  medicine  in  1898.  He 
finished  his  studies  at  Johns  Hopkins  in  Baltimore  and  returned 
to  Canada,  joining  the  sta.T  of  the  Medical  School  of  McGill 
University.  He  was  a  lieutenant  of  artillery  in  South  Africa 
(1899-1900)  and  was  in  charge  of  the  Medical  Division  of  the 
McGill  Canadian  General  Hospital  during  the  World  War. 
After  serving  two  years,  he  died  of  pneumonia,  January,  1918, 
his  volume  In  Flanders  Fields  (1919)  appearing  posthumously. 

Few  who  read  the  title  poem  of  his  book,  possibly  the  most 
widely-read  poem  produced  by  the  war,  realize  that  it  is  a 
perfect  rondeau,  one  of  the  loveliest  (and  strictest)  of  the 
French  forms. 


IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS 

In  Flanders  fields  the  poppies  blow 
Between  the  crosses,  row  on  row, 

That  mark  our  place ;  and  in  the  sky 
The  larks,  still  bravely  singing,  fly 
Scarce  heard  amid  the  guns  below. 

We  are  the  Dead.     Short  days  ago 
We  lived,  felt  dawn,  saw  sunset  glow, 
Loved  and  were  loved,  and  now  we  lie 
In  Flanders  fields. 

Take  up  our  quarrel  with  the  foe: 
To  you  from  failing  hands  we  throw 
The  torch;  be  yours  to  hold  it  high. 
If  ye  break  faith  with  us  who  die 
We  shall  not  sleep,  though  poppies  grow 
In  Flanders  fields. 
101 


Ford  -Mado-x  Hueffer 

Ford  Madox  Hueffer  was  born  in  1873  and  is  best  known  as 
the  author  of  many  novels,  two  of  which,  Romance  and  The 
Inheritors,  were  written  in  collaboration  with  Joseph  Conrad. 
He  has  written  also  several  critical  studies,  those  on  Rossetti 
and  Henry  James  being  the  most  notable.  His  On  Heaven  and 
Other  Poems  appeared  in  1916. 


CLAIR  DE  LUNE 


I  should  like  to  imagine 

A  moonlight  in  which  there  would  be  no  machine- 
guns! 

For,  it  is  possible 

To  come  out  of  a  trench  or  a  hut  or  a  tent  or  a 

church  all  in  ruins: 

To  see  the  black  perspective  of  long  avenues 
All  silent. 

The  white  strips  of  sky 
At  the  sides,  cut  by  the  poplar  trunks: 
The  white  strips  of  sky 
Above,  diminishing — 
The  silence  and  blackness  of  the  avenue 
Enclosed  by  immensities  of  space 
Spreading  away 
Over  No  Man's  Land.   .    .    . 

For  a  minute  .    .    . 
For  ten   .    .    . 
There  will  be  no  star  shells 
But  the  untroubled  stars, 
102 


Ford  Mad  ox  Hueffer 

There  will  be  no  Very  light 
But  the  light  of  the  quiet  moon 
Like  a  swan. 
And  silence.   .    .    . 

Then,  far  away  to  the  right  thro'  the  moonbeams 

"  Wukka  Wukka  "  will  go  the  machine-guns, 

And,  far  away  to  the  left 

Wukka  Wukka. 

And  sharply, 

Wuk   .    .    .   Wuk   .    .    .   and  then  silence 

For  a  space  in  the  clear  of  the  moon. 


II 

I  should  like  to  imagine 

A  moonlight  in  which  the  machine-guns  of  trouble 

Will  be  silent.   .    .    . 

Do  you  remember,  my  dear, 

Long  ago,  on  the  cliffs,  in  the  moonlight, 

Looking  over  to  Flatholme 

We  sat  ...   Long  ago!  .    .    . 

And  the  things  that  you  told  me   ... 

Little  things  in  the  clear  of  the  moon, 

The  little,  sad  things  of  a  life.   .    .    . 

We  shall  do  it  again 
Full  surely, 

Sitting  still,  looking  over  at  Flatholme. 
103 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

Then,  far  away  to  the  right 

Shall  sound  the  Machine  Guns  of  trouble 

Wukka-wukka! 

And,  far  away  to  the  left,  under  Flatholme, 

Wukka-wuk!  .    .    . 

I  wonder,  my  dear,  can  you  stick  it? 
As  we  should  say:  "  Stick  it,  the  Welch!  " 
In  the  dark  of  the  moon, 
Going  over.   .    .    . 


<  THERE  SHALL  BE  MORE  JOY  .   .   ." 

The  little  angels  of  Heaven 
Each  wear  a  long  white  dress, 
And  in  the  tall  arcadings 
Play  ball  and  play  at  chess; 

With  never  a  soil  on  their  garments, 
Not  a  sigh  the  whole  day  long, 
Not  a  bitter  note  in  their  pleasure, 
Not  a  bitter  note  in  their  song. 

But  they  shall  know  keener  pleasure, 
And  they  shall  know  joy  more  rare — 
Keener,  keener  pleasure 
When  you,  my  dear,  come  there. 


104 


Ford  Madox  Hueffer 

The  little  angels  of  Heaven 
Each  wear  a  long  white  gown, 
And  they  lean  over  the  ramparts 
Waiting  and  looking  down. 


Walter  De  la  Mare 

The  author  of  some  of  the  most  haunting  lyrics  in  contem- 
porary poetry,  Walter  De  la  Mare,  was  born  in  1873.  Al- 
though he  did  not  begin  to  bring  out  his  work  in  book  form 
until  he  was  over  30,  he  is,  as  Harold  Williams  has  written, 
"  the  singer  of  a  young  and  romantic  world,  a  singer  even  for 
children,  understanding  and  perceiving  as  a  child."  De  la 
Mare  paints  simple  scenes  of  miniature  loveliness;  he  uses 
thin-spun  fragments  of  fairy-like  delicacy  and  achieves  a  grace 
that  is  remarkable  in  its  universality.  "  In  a  few  words,  seem- 
ingly artless  and  unsought"  (to  quote  Williams  again),  "he 
can  express  a  pathos  or  a  hope  as  wide  as  man's  life." 

De  la  Mare  is  an  astonishing  joiner  of  words;  in  Peacock 
Pie  (1913)  he  surprises  us  again  and  again  by  transforming 
what  began  as  a  child's  nonsense-rhyme  into  a  suddenly  thrill- 
ing snatch  of  music.  A  score  of  times  he  takes  things  as  casual 
as  the  feeding  of  chickens  or  the  swallowing  of  physic,  berry- 
picking,  eating,  hair-cutting — and  turns  them  into  magic.  These 
poems  read  like  lyrics  of  William  Shakespeare  rendered  by 
Mother  Goose.  The  trick  of  revealing  the  ordinary  in  whim- 
sical colors,  of  catching  the  commonplace  off  its  guard,  is  the 
first  of  De  la  Mare's  two  magics. 

This  poet's  second  gift  is  his  sense  of  the  supernatural,  of  the 
fantastic  other-world  that  lies  on  the  edges  of  our  conscious- 
ness. The  Listeners  (1912)  is  a  book  that,  like  all  the  best  of 
De  la  Mare,  is  full  of  half-heard  whispers;  moonlight  and 
mystery  seem  soaked  in  the  lines,  and  a  cool  wind  from  No- 
where blows  over  them.  That  most  magical  of  modern  verses, 
"  The  Listeners,"  and  the  brief  music  of  "  An  Epitaph "  are 

|*wo  fine  examples   among  many.     In  the  first  of  these  poems 
105 


Walter  De  la  Mare 

there  is  an  uncanny  splendor.  What  we  have  here  is  the  effect, 
the  thrill,  the  overtones  of  a  ghost  story  rather  than  the  nar- 
rative itself — the  less  than  half-told  adventure  of  some  new 
Childe  Roland  heroically  challenging  a  heedless  universe. 
Never  have  silence  and  black  night  been  reproduced  more 
creepily,  nor  has  the  symbolism  of  man's  courage  facing  the 
cryptic  riddle  of  life  been  more  memorably  expressed. 

De  la  Mare's  chief  distinction,  however,  lies  not  so  much 
in  what  he  says  as  in  how  he  says  it;  he  can  even  take  out- 
worn words  like  "  thridding,"  "  athwart,"  "  amaranthine  "  and 
make  them  live  again  in  a  poetry  that  is  of  no  time  and  of 
all  time.  He  writes,  it  has  been  said,  as  much  for  antiquity  as 
for  posterity;  he  is  a  poet  who  is  distinctively  in  the  world 
and  yet  not  wholly  of  it. 


THE  LISTENERS 

'  Is  there  anybody  there  ?  '  said  the  Traveller, 

Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor. 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  the  turret, 

Above  the  Traveller's  head: 
And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  a  second  time; 

1  Is  there  anybody  there?  '  he  said. 
But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

No  head  from  the  leaf-fringed  sill 
Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  grey  eyes, 

Where  he  stood  perplexed  and  still. 
But  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonlight 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men: 
106 


Walter  De  la  Mare 

Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on  the  dark 
stair, 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall, 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call. 
And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness, 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry, 
While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky; 
For  he  suddenly  smote  on  the  door,  even 

Louder,  and  lifted  his  head: — 
*  Tell  them  I  came,  and  no  one  answered, 

That  I  kept  my  word/  he  said. 
Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners, 

Though  every  word  he  spake 
Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of  the  still 
house 

From  the  one  man  left  awake: 
Ay,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup, 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone, 
And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  backward, 

When  the  plunging  hoofs  were  gone. 


AN  EPITAPH 

Here  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady, 
Light  of  step  and  heart  was  she ; 
I  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  lady 
That  ever  was  in  the  West  Country. 
107 


Walter  De  la  Mare 

But  beauty  vanishes;  beauty  passes; 
However  rare — rare  it  be; 
And  when  I  crumble,  who  will  remember 
This  lady  of  the  West  Country? 


TIRED  TIM 

Poor  tired  Tim !    It's  sad  for  him. 

He  lags  the  long  bright  morning  through, 

Ever  so  tired  of  nothing  to  do; 

He  moons  and  mopes  the  livelong  day, 

Nothing  to  think  about,  nothing  to  say; 

Up  to  bed  with  his  candle  to  creep, 

Too  tired  to  yawn;  too  tired  to  sleep: 

Poor  tired  Tim!     It's  sad  for  him. 


OLD  SUSAN 

When  Susan's  work  was  done,  she'd  sit 
With  one  fat  guttering  candle  lit, 
And  window  opened  wide  to  win 
The  sweet  night  air  to  enter  in; 
There,  with  a  thumb  to  keep  her  place 
She'd  read,  with  stern  and  wrinkled  face. 
Her  mild  eyes  gliding  very  slow 
Across  the  letters  to  and  fro, 
While  wagged  the  guttering  candle  flame 
In  the  wind  that  through  the  window  came. 
108 


Walter  De  la  Mare 

And  sometimes  in  the  silence  she 

Would  mumble  a  sentence  audibly, 

Or  shake  her  head  as  if  to  say, 

'  You  silly  souls,  to  act  this  way !  ' 

And  never  a  sound  from  night  I'd  hear, 

Unless  some  far-off  cock  crowed  clear; 

Or  her  old  shuffling  thumb  should  turn 

Another  page;  and  rapt  and  stern, 

Through  her  great  glasses  bent  on  me 

She'd  glance  into  reality; 

And  shake  her  round  old  silvery  head, 

With — '  You ! — I  thought  you  was  in  bed !  '- 

Only  to  tilt  her  book  again, 

And  rooted  in  Romance  remain. 

NOD 

Softly  along  the  road  of  evening, 

In  a  twilight  dim  with  rose, 
Wrinkled  with  age,  and  drenched  with  dew 

Old  Nod,  the  shepherd,  goes. 

His  drowsy  flock  streams  on  before  him, 
Their  fleeces  charged  with  gold, 

To  where  the  sun's  last  beam  leans  low 
On  Nod  the  shepherd's  fold. 

The  hedge  is  quick  and  green  with  briar, 
From  their  sand  the  conies  creep; 

And  all  the  birds  that  fly  in  heaven 
Flock  singing  home  to  sleep. 
109 


Walter  De  la  Mare 

His  lambs  outnumber  a  noon's  roses, 
Yet,  when  night's  shadows  fall, 

His  blind  old  sheep-dog,  Slumber-soon, 
Misses  not  one  of  all. 

His  are  the  quiet  steeps  of  dreamland, 
The  waters  of  no-more-pain ; 

His  ram's  bell  rings  'neath  an  arch  of  stars, 
"  Rest,  rest,  and  rest  again." 


G.  K.   Chesterton 

This  brilliant  journalist,  novelist,  essayist,  publicist  and  ly- 
ricist, Gilbert  Keith  Chesterton,  was  born  at  Campden  Hill, 
Kensington,  in  1874,  and  began  his  literary  life  by  reviewing 
books  on  art  for  various  magazines.  He  is  best  known  as  a 
writer  of  flashing,  paradoxical  essays  on  anything  and  every- 
thing, like  Tremendous  Trifles  (1909),  Varied  Types  (1905), 
and  All  Things  Considered  (1910).  But  he  is  also  a  stimulat- 
ing critic;  a  keen  appraiser,  as  in  his  volume  Heretics  (1905) 
and  his  analytical  studies  of  Robert  Browning,  Charles  Dick- 
ens, and  George  Bernard  Shaw;  a  writer  of  strange  and  gro- 
tesque romances  like  The  Napoleon  of  Notting  Hill  (1906), 
The  Man  Who  Was  Thursday  (1908),  which  Chesterton  him- 
self has  subtitled  "  A  Nightmare,"  and  The  Flying  Inn  (1914)  ; 
the  author  of  several  books  of  fantastic  short  stories,  ranging 
from  the  wildly  whimsical  narratives  in  The  Club  of  Queer 
Trades  (1905)  to  that  amazing  sequence  The  Innocence  of 
Father  Brown  (1911) — which  is  a  series  of  religious  detective 
stories! 

Besides  being  the  creator  of  all  of  these,  Chesterton  finds 
time  to  be  a  prolific  if  sometimes  too  acrobatic  newspaperman, 
a  lay  preacher  in  disguise  (witness  Orthodoxy  [1908],  What's 
Wrong  with  the  World?  [1910],  The  Ball  and  the  Cross 

1 10 


G.  K.  Chesterton 

[1909])  a  pamphleteer,  and  a  poet.  His  first  volume  of  verse, 
The  Wild  Knight  and  Other  Poems  (1900),  a  collection  of 
quaintly-flavored  and  affirmative  verses,  was  followed  by  The 
Ballad  of  the  White  Horse  (1911),  one  long  poem  which,  in 
spite  of  Chesterton's  ever-present  didactic  sermonizing,  is  pos- 
sibly the  most  stirring  creation  he  has  achieved.  This  poem 
has  the  swing,  the  vigor,  the  spontaneity,  and,  above  all,  the 
ageless  simplicity  of  the  true  narrative  ballad. 

Scarcely  less  notable  is  the  ringing  u  Lepanto  "  from  his  later 
Poems  (1915)  which,  anticipating  the  banging,  clanging  verses 
of  Vachel  Lindsay's  "  The  Congo,"  is  one  of  the  finest  of  mod- 
ern chants.  It  is  interesting  to  see  how  the  syllables  beat,  as 
though  on  brass;  it  is  thrilling  to  feel  how,  in  one's  pulses,  the 
armies  sing,  the  feet  tramp,  the  drums  snarl,  and  all  the  tides 
of  marching  crusaders  roll  out  of  lines  like: 

"  Strong  gongs  groaning  as  the  guns  boom  far, 
Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war; 
Stiff  flags  straining  in  the  night-blasts  cold 
In  the  gloom  black-purple,  in  the  glint  old-gold; 
Torchlight  crimson  on  the  copper  kettle-drums, 
Then  the  tuckets,  then  the  trumpets,  then  the  cannon,  and  he 
comes.   ..." 

Chesterton,  the  prose-paradoxer,  is  a  delightful  product  of  a 
skeptical  age.  But  it  is  Chesterton  the  poet  who  is  more  likely 
to  outlive  it. 


LEPANTO 1 

White  founts  falling  in  the  Courts  of  the  sun, 

And  the  Soldan  of  Byzantium  is  smiling  as  they  run; 

There  is  laughter  like  the  fountains  in  that  face  of  all 

men  feared, 
It  stirs  the  forest  darkness,  the  darkness  of  his  beard ; 

1  From  Poems  by  G.  K.  Chesterton.     Copyright  by  the  John 
Lane  Co.  and  reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 

Ill 


G.  K.  Chesterton 

It  curls  the  blood-red  crescent,  the  crescent  of  his  lips; 
For  the  inmost  sea  of  all  the  earth  is  shaken  with  his  ships. 
They  have  dared  the  white  republics  up  the  capes  of 

Italy, 

They  have  dashed  the  Adriatic  round  the  Lion  of  the  Sea, 
And  the  Pope  has  cast  his  arms  abroad  for  agony  and 

loss, 
And  called  the  kings  of  Christendom  for  swords  about 

the  Cross. 

The  cold  queen  of  England  is  looking  in  the  glass; 
The  shadow  of  the  Valois  is  yawning  at  the  Mass; 
From  evening  isles  fantastical  rings  faint  the  Spanish  gun, 
And  the  Lord  upon  the  Golden  Horn  is  laughing  in  the 

sun. 

Dim  drums  throbbing,  in  the  hills  half  heard, 

Where  only  on  a  nameless  throne  a  crownless  prince  has 

stirred, 

Where,  risen  from  a  doubtful  seat  and  half  attainted  stall, 
The  last  knight  of  Europe  takes  weapons  from  the  wall, 
The  last  and  lingering  troubadour  to  whom  the  bird  has 

sung, 
That  once  went  singing  southward  when  all  the  world 

was  young. 

In  that  enormous  silence,  tiny  and  unafraid, 
Comes  up  along  a  winding  road  the  noise  of  the  Crusade. 
Strong  gongs  groaning  as  the  guns  boom  far, 
Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war, 
Stiff  flags  straining  in  the  night-blasts  cold 
In  the  gloom  black-purple,  in  the  glint  old-gold, 

112 


G.  K.  Chesterton 

Torchlight  crimson  on  the  copper  kettle-drums, 

Then  the  tuckets,  then  the  trumpets,  then  the  cannon, 

and  he  comes. 

Don  John  laughing  in  the  brave  beard  curled, 
Spurning  of  his  stirrups  like  the  thrones  of  all  the  world, 
Holding  his  head  up  for  a  flag  of  all  the  free. 
Love-light   of    Spain  —  hurrah! 
Death-light  of  Africa! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  riding  to  the  sea. 

Mahound  is  in  his  paradise  above  the  evening  star, 
(Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war.) 
He  moves  a  mighty  turban  on  the  timeless  houri's  knees, 
His  turban  that  is  woven  of  the  sunsets  and  the  seas. 
He  shakes  the  peacock  gardens  as  he  rises  from  his  ease, 
d  he  strides  among  the  tree-tops  and  is  taller  than  the 

trees  ; 
And  his  voice  through  all  the  garden  is  a  thunder  sent  to 

bring 

Black  Azrael  and  Ariel  and  Ammon  on  the  wing. 
Giants  and  the  Genii, 
Multiplex  of  wing  and  eye, 
Whose  strong  obedience  broke  the  sky 
When  Solomon  was  king. 

They  rush  in  red  and  purple  from  the  red  clouds  of  the 

morn, 
From  the  temples  where  the  yellow  gods  shut  up  their 

eyes  in  scorn; 


A" 


G.  K.  Chesterton 

They  rise  in  green  robes  roaring  from  the  green  hells  of 

the  sea 

Where    fallen    skies    and    evil    hues    and    eyeless    crea- 
tures be, 
On  them  the  sea-valves  cluster  and  the  grey  sea-forests 

curl, 
Splashed   with  a  splendid  sickness,   the   sickness  of   the 

pearl  ; 
They  swell  in  sapphire  smoke  out  of  the  blue  cracks  of 

the  ground, — 
They   gather    and    they    wonder    and    give    worship    to 

Mahound. 

And  he  saith,  "  Break  up  the  mountains  where  the  her- 
mit-folk can  hide, 
And   sift   the   red   and  silver   sands  lest  bone  of   saint 

abide, 
And  chase  the  Giaours  flying  night  and  day,  not  giving 

rest, 
For  that  which  was  our  trouble  comes  again  out  of  the 

west. 

We  have  set  the  seal  of  Solomon  on  all  things  under  sun, 
Of  knowledge  and  of  sorrow  and  endurance  of  things 

done. 
But  a  noise  is  in  the  mountains,  in  the  mountains,  and  I 

know 
The  voice  that  shook  our  palaces — four  hundred  years 

ago: 
It  is  he  that  saith  not  '  Kismet ' ;  it  is  he  that  knows  not 

Fate; 

It  is  Richard,  it  is  Raymond,  it  is  Godfrey  at  the  gate! 

114 


G.  K.  Chesterton 

It  is  he  whose  loss  is  laughter  when  he  counts  the  wager 

worth, 
Put  down  your  feet  upon  him,  that  our  peace  be  on  the 

earth." 

For  he  heard  drums  groaning  and  he  heard  guns  jar, 
(Don  John  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war.) 
Sudden  and  still — hurrah! 
Bolt  from  Iberia! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  gone  by  Alcalar. 

St.  Michael's  on  his  Mountain  in  the  sea-roads  of  the 

north 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  girt  and  going  forth.) 
Where  the  grey  seas  glitter  and  the  sharp  tides  shift 
And  the  sea-folk  labour  and  the  red  sails  lift, 
He  shakes  his  lance  of  iron  and  he  claps  his  wings  of 

stone ; 

>he  noise  is  gone  through  Normandy;  the  noise  is  gone 

alone ; 
The  North  is  full  of  tangled  things  and  texts  and  aching 

eyes, 

And  dead  is  all  the  innocence  of  anger  and  surprise, 
And  Christian  killeth  Christian  in  a  narrow  dusty  room, 
And  Christian  dreadeth  Christ  that  hath  a  newer  face 

of  doom, 

And  Christian  hateth  Mary  that  God  kissed  in  Galilee, — 
But  Don  John  of  Austria  is  riding  to  the  sea. 
Don  John  calling  through  the  blast  and  the  eclipse 
Crying  with  the  trumpet,  with  the  trumpet  of  his  lips, 


r 


G.  K.  Chesterton 

Trumpet  that  sayeth  ha! 

Domino  gloria! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Is  shouting  to  the  ships. 

King  Philip's  in  his  closet  with  the  Fleece  about  his  neck 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  armed  upon  the  deck.} 

The  walls  are  hung  with  velvet  that  is  black  and  soft 

as  sin, 

And  little  dwarfs  creep  out  of  it  and  little  dwarfs  creep  in. 
He  holds  a  crystal  phial  that  has  colours  like  the  moon, 
He  touches,  and  it  tingles,  and  he  trembles  very  soon, 
And  his  face  is  as  a  fungus  of  a  leprous  white  and  grey 
Like  plants  in  the  high  houses  that  are  shuttered  from 

the  day, 

And  death  is  in  the  phial  and  the  end  of  noble  work, 
But  Don  John  of  Austria  has  fired  upon  the  Turk. 
Don  John's  hunting,  and  his  hounds  have  bayed — 
Booms  away  past  Italy  the  rumour  of  his  raid. 
Gun  upon  gun,  ha!  ha! 
Gun  upon  gun,  hurrah! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Has  loosed  the  cannonade. 

The  Pope  was  in  his  chapel  before  day  or  battle  broke, 

(Don  John  of  Austria  is  hidden  in  the  smoke.) 

The  hidden  room  in  man's  house  where  God  sits  all  the 

year, 

The  secret  window  whence  the  world  looks  small  and 
very  dear. 

116 


G.  K.  Chesterton 

He  sees  as  in  a  mirror  on  the  monstrous  twilight  sea 
The  crescent  of  his  cruel  ships  whose  name  is  mystery; 
They  fling  great  shadows  foe-wards,  making  Cross  and 

Castle  dark, 

They  veil  the  plumed  lions  on  the  galleys  of  St.  Mark; 
And  above  the  ships  are  palaces  of  brown,  black-bearded 

chiefs, 

And  below  the  ships  are  prisons,  where  with  multitudi- 
nous griefs, 
Christian  captives  sick  and  sunless,  all  a  labouring  race 

repines 

Like  a  race  in  sunken  cities,  like  a  nation  in  the  mines. 
They  are  lost  like  slaves  that  sweat,  and  in  the  skies  of 

morning  hung 
The  stair-ways  of  the  tallest  gods  when  tyranny  was 

young. 
They  are  countless,  voiceless,  hopeless  as  those  fallen  or 

fleeing  on 

Before  the  high  Kings*  horses  in  the  granite  of  Babylon. 
And  many  a  one  grows  witless  in  his  quiet  room  in  hell 
Where  a  yellow  face  looks  inward  through  the  lattice  of 

his  cell, 
And  he  finds  his  God  forgotten,  and  he  seeks  no  more  a 

sign— 

(But  Don  John  of  Austria  has  burst  the  battle-line!) 
Don  John  pounding  from  the  slaughter-painted  poop, 
Purpling  all  the  ocean  like  a  bloody  pirate's  sloop, 
Scarlet  running  over  on  the  silvers  and  the  golds, 
Breaking  of  the  hatches  up  and  bursting  of  the  holds, 
Thronging  of  the  thousands  up  that  labour  under  sea 
White  for  bliss  and  blind  for  sun  and  stunned  for  liberty. 


G.  K.  Chesterton 

Vivat  Hispania! 
Domino  Gloria! 
Don  John  of  Austria 
Has  set  his  people  free! 

Cervantes  on  his  galley  sets  the  sword  back  in  the  sheath 
(Don  John  of  Austria  rides  homeward  with  a  wreath.) 
And  he  sees  across  a  weary  land  a  straggling  road  in 

Spain, 

Up  which  a  lean  and  foolish  knight  for  ever  rides  in  vain, 
And  he  smiles,  but  not  as  Sultans  smile,  and  settles  back 

the  blade.   .    .    . 
(But  Don  John  of  Austria  rides  home  from  the  Crusade.) 


A  PRAYER  IN  DARKNESS 

This  much,  O  heaven — if  I  should  brood  or  rave, 
Pity  me  not;  but  let  the  world  be  fed, 
Yea,  in  my  madness  if  I  strike  me  dead, 

Heed  you  the  grass  that  grows  upon  my  grave. 

If  I  dare  snarl  between  this  sun  and  sod, 

Whimper  and  clamour,  give  me  grace  to  own, 
In  sun  and  rain  and  fruit  in  season  shown, 

The  shining  silence  of  the  scorn  of  God. 

Thank  God  the  stars  are  set  beyond  my  power, 
If  I  must  travail  in  a  night  of  wrath, 
Thank  God  my  tears  will  never  vex  a  moth, 

Nor  any  curse  of  mine  cut  down  a  flower. 
118 


G.  K.  Chesterton 

Men  say  the  sun  was  darkened:  yet  I  had 
Thought  it  beat  brightly,  even  on — Calvary: 
And  He  that  hung  upon  the  Torturing  Tree 

Heard  all  the  crickets  singing,  and  was  glad. 


THE  DONKEY 

"  The  tattered  outlaw  of  the  earth, 

Of  ancient  crooked  will; 
Starve,  scourge,  deride  me:  I  am  dumb, 
I  keep  my  secret  still. 

"  Fools!     For  I  also  had  my  hour; 
One  far  fierce  hour  and  sweet: 
There  was  a  shout  about  my  ears, 
And  palms  before  my  feet." 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

Born  at  Hexam  in  1878,  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  has  published 
almost  a  dozen  books  of  verse — the  first  four  or  five  (see 
Preface)  being  imitative  in  manner  and  sentimentally  romantic 
in  tone.  With  The  Stonefolds  (1907)  and  Daily  Bread  (1910), 
Gibson  executed  a  complete  right-about-face  and,  with  dra- 
matic brevity,  wrote  a  series  of  poems  mirroring  the  dreams, 
pursuits  and  fears  of  common  humanity.  Fires  (1912)  marks 
an  advance  in  technique  and  power.  And  though  in  Liveli- 
hood (1917)  Gibson  seems  to  be  theatricalizing  and  merely 
exploiting  his  working-people,  his  later  lyrics  recapture  the 
veracity  of  such  memorable  poems  as  "  The  Old  Man,"  "  The 

IIQ 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

Blind  Rower,"  and  "The  Machine."  Hill-Tracks  (1918)  at- 
tempts to  capture  the  beauty  of  village-names  and  the  glamour 
of  the  English  countryside. 


PRELUDE 

As  one,  at  midnight,  wakened  by  the  call 
Of  golden-plovers  in  their  seaward  flight, 
Who  lies  and  listens,  as  the  clear  notes  fall 
Through  tingling  silence  of  the  frosty  night — 
Who  lies  and  listens,  till  the  last  note  fails, 
And  then,  in  fancy,  faring  with  the  flock 
Far  over  slumbering  hills  and  dreaming  dales, 
Soon  hears  the  surges  break  on  reef  and  rock; 
And,  hearkening,  till  all  sense  of  self  is  drowned 
Within  the  mightier  music  of  the  deep, 
No  more  remembers  the  sweet  piping  sound 
That  startled  him  from  dull,  undreaming  sleep; 
So  I,  first  waking  from  oblivion,  heard, 
With  heart  that  kindled  to  the  call  of  song, 
The  voice  of  young  life,  fluting  like  a  bird, 
And  echoed  that  light  lilting ;  till,  ere  long, 
Lured  onward  by  that  happy,  singing-flight, 
I  caught  the  stormy  summons  of  the  sea, 
And  dared  the  restless  deeps  that,  day  and  night, 
Surge  with  the  life-song  of  humanity. 


120 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

THE  STONE1 

"  And  will  you  cut  a  stone  for  him, 
To  set  above  his  head? 
And  will  you  cut  a  stone  for  him — 
A  stone  for  him?"  she  said. 

Three  days  before,  a  splintered  rock 

Had  struck  her  lover  dead — 

Had  struck  him  in  the  quarry  dead, 

Where,  careless  of  the  warning  call, 

He  loitered,  while  the  shot  was  fired — 

A  lively  stripling,  brave  and  tall, 

And  sure  of  all  his  heart  desired   .    .    . 

A  flash,  a  shock, 

A  rumbling  fall   .    .    . 

And,  broken  'neath  the  broken  rock, 

A  lifeless  heap,  with  face  of  clay; 

And  still  as  any  stone  he  lay, 

With  eyes  that  saw  the  end  of  all. 

I  went  to  break  the  news  to  her; 
And  I  could  hear  my  own  heart  beat 
With  dread  of  what  my  lips  might  say 
But,  some  poor  fool  had  sped  before; 
And  flinging  wide  her  father's  door, 
Had  blurted  out  the  news  to  her, 

1  From  Fires  by  Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson.     Copyright,  1912,  by 
The  Macmillan  Co.    Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 

121 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

Had  struck  her  lover  dead  for  her, 
Had  struck  the  girl's  heart  dead  in  her, 
Had  struck  life,  lifeless,  at  a  word, 
And  dropped  it  at  her  feet: 
Then  hurried  on  his  witless  way, 
Scarce  knowing  she  had  heard. 

And  when  I  came,  she  stood,  alone 
A  woman,  turned  to  stone: 
And,  though  no  word  at  all  she  said, 
I  knew,  that  all  was  known. 

Because  her  heart  was  dead, 
She  did  not  sigh  nor  moan, 
His  mother  wept: 
She  could  not  weep. 
Her  lover  slept: 
She  could  not  sleep. 
Three  days,  three  nights, 
She  did  not  stir: 
Three  days,  three  nights, 
Were  one  to  her, 
Who  never  closed  her  eyes 
From  sunset  to  sunrise, 
From  dawn  to  evenf all : 
Her  tearless,  staring  eyes, 
That  seeing  naught,  saw  all. 

The  fourth  night  when  I  came  from  work, 
I  found  her  at  my  door. 
"And  will  you  cut  a  stone  for  him?" 
She  said:  and  spoke  no  more: 

122 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

But  followed  me,  as  I  went  in, 

And  sank  upon  a  chair; 

And  fixed  her  grey  eyes  on  my  face, 

With  still,  unseeing  stare. 

And,  as  she  waited  patiently, 

I  could  not  bear  to  feel 

Those  still,  grey  eyes  that  followed  me, 

Those  eyes  that  plucked  the  heart  from  me, 

Those  eyes  that  sucked  the  breath  from  me 

And  curdled  the  warm  blood  in  me, 

Those  eyes  that  cut  me  to  the  bone, 

And  pierced  my  marrow  like  cold  steel. 

And  so  I  rose,  and  sought  a  stone; 

And  cut  it,  smooth  and  square: 

And,  as  I  worked,  she  sat  and  watched, 

Beside  me,  in  her  chair. 

Night  after  night,  by  candlelight, 

I  cut  her  lover's  name : 

Night  after  night,  so  still  and  white, 

And  like  a  ghost  she  came; 

And  sat  beside  me  in  her  chair; 

And  watched  with  eyes  aflame. 

She  eyed  each  stroke; 
And  hardly  stirred: 
She  never  spoke 
A  single  word: 

And  not  a  sound  or  murmur  broke 
The  quiet,  save  the  mallet-stroke, 
123 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

With  still  eyes  ever  on  my  hands, 
With  eyes  that  seemed  to  burn  my  hands, 
My  wincing,  overwearied  hands, 
She  watched,  with  bloodless  lips  apart, 
And  silent,  indrawn  breath: 
And  every  stroke  my  chisel  cut, 
Death  cut  still  deeper  in  her  heart: 
The  two  of  us  were  chiselling, 
Together,  I  and  death. 

And  when  at  length  the  job  was  done, 
And  I  had  laid  the  mallet  by, 
As  if,  at  last,  her  peace  were  won, 
She  breathed  his  name ;  and,  with  a  sigh, 
Passed  slowly  hrough  the  open  door: 
And  never  crossed  my  threshold  more. 

Next  night  I  laboured  late,  alone, 
To  cut  her  name  upon  the  stone. 


SIGHT 1 

By  the  lamplit  stall  I  loitered,  feasting  my  eyes 
On  colours  ripe  and  rich  for  the  heart's  desire — 
Tomatoes,  redder  than  Krakatoa's  fire, 

1  From  Borderlands  and  Thoroughfares  by  Wilfrid  Wilson 
Gibson.  Copyright,  1915,  by  The  Macmillan  Company.  Re- 
printed by  permission  of  the  publishers. 

124 


Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson 

Oranges  like  old  sunsets  over  Tyre, 

And  apples  golden-green  as  the  glades  of  Paradise. 

And  as  I  lingered,  lost  in  divine  delight, 

My  heart  thanked  God  for  the  goodly  gift  of  sight 

And  all  youth's  lively  senses  keen  and  quick  .   .   . 

When  suddenly,  behind  me  in  the  night, 

I  heard  the  tapping  of  a  blind  man's  stick. 


John  Mas e field 

John  Masefield  was  born  June  i,  1878,  in  Lcdbury,  Hertford- 
shire. He  was  the  son  of  a  lawyer  but,  being  of  a  restless  dis- 
position, he  took  to  the  sea  at  an  early  age  and  became  a 
wanderer  for  several  years.  At  one  time,  in  1895,  to  be  exact, 
he  worked  for  a  few  months  as  a  sort  of  third  assistant  bar- 
keeper and  dish-washer  in  Luke  O'Connor's  saloon,  the  Colum- 
bia Hotel,  in  New  York  City.  The  place  is  still  there  on  the 
corner  of  Sixth  and  Greenwich  Avenues. 

The  results  of  his  wanderings  showed  in  his  early  works, 
Salt-Water  Ballads  (1902),  Ballads  (1903),  frank  and  often 
crude  poems  of  sailors  written  in  their  own  dialect,  and  A 
Mainsail  Haul  (1905),  a  collection  of  short  nautical  stories.  In 
these  books  Masefield  possibly  overemphasized  passion  and 
brutality  but,  underneath  the  violence,  he  captured  that  highly- 
colored  realism  which  is  the  poetry  of  life. 

It  was  not  until  he  published  The  Everlasting  Mercy  (1911) 
that  he  became  famous.  Followed  quickly  by  those  remarkable 
long  narrative  poems,  The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street  (1912), 
Dauber  (1912),  and  The  Daffodil  Fields  (1913),  there  is  in  all 
of  these  that  peculiar  blend  of  physical  exulting  and  spiritual 
exaltation  that  is  so  striking,  and  so  typical  of  Masefield. 
Their  very  rudeness  is  lifted  to  a  plane  of  religious  intensity. 
(See  Preface.)  Pictorially,  Masefield  is  even  more  forceful. 
The  finest  moment  in  The  Widow  in  the  Bye  Street  is  the  por- 

125 


John  M as e field 

trayal  of  the  mother  alone  in  her  cottage;  the  public-house 
scene  and  the  passage  describing  the  birds  following  the  plough 
are  the  most  intense  touches  in  The  Everlasting  Mercy.  Noth- 
ing more  vigorous  and  thrilling  than  the  description  of  the 
storm  at  sea  in  Dauber  has  appeared  in  current  literature. 

The  war,  in  which  Masefield  served  with  the  Red  Cross  in 
France  and  on  the  Gallipoli  peninsula  (of  which  campaign  he 
wrote  a  study  for  the  government),  softened  his  style;  Good 
Friday  and  Other  Poems  (1916)  is  as  restrained  and  dignified 
a  collection  as  that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries.  Reynard  the 
Fox  (1919)  is  the  best  of  his  new  manner  with  a  return  of  the 
old  vivacity. 

Masefield  has  also  written  several  novels  of  which  Multitude 
and  Solitude  (1909)  is  the  most  outstanding;  half  a  dozen 
plays,  ranging  from  the  classical  solemnity  of  Pompey  the 
Great  to  the  hot  and  racy  Tragedy  of  Nan;  and  one  of  the 
freshest,  most  creative  critiques  of  Shakespeare  (1911)  in  the 
last  generation. 


A  CONSECRATION 

Not    of    the    princes    and     prelates    with     periwigged 

charioteers 
Riding    triumphantly    laurelled    to    lap    the   fat   of   the 

years, — 
Rather  the  scorned — the  rejected — the  men  hemmed  in 

with  the  spears; 

The  men  of  the  tattered  battalion  which  fights  till  it  dies, 
Dazed  with  the  dust  of  the  battle,  the  din  and  the  cries. 
The  men  with  the  broken  heads  and  the  blood  running 
into  their  eyes. 

Not  the  be-medalled  Commander,  beloved  of  the  throne, 
Riding  cock-horse  to  parade  when  the  bugles  are  blown, 
But  the  lads  who  carried  the  koppie  and  cannot  be  known. 

126 


John  M as e field 

Not  the  ruler  for  me,  but  the  ranker,  the  tramp  of  the 

road, 
The  slave  with  the  sack  on  his  shoulders  pricked  on  with 

the  goad, 
The  man  with  too  weighty  a  burden,  too  weary  a  load. 

The  sailor,  the  stoker  of  steamers,  the  man  with  the  clout, 
The  chantyman  bent  at  the  halliards  putting  a  tune  to 

the  shout, 
The  drowsy  man  at  the  wheel  and  the  tired  look-out. 

Others  may  sing  of  the  wine  and  the  wealth  and  the 

mirth, 

The  portly  presence  of  potentates  goodly  in  girth; — 
Mine  be  the  dirt  and  the  dross,  the  dust  and  scum  of  the 

earth ! 

Theirs  be  the  music,  the  colour,  the  glory,  the  gold ; 

Mine  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 

Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and 

the  cold — 

Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tales  be  told. 

AMEN. 

SEA-FEVER 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and  the 

sky, 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by, 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the  white 

sail's  shaking, 
And   a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face  and  a  grey  dawn 

breaking. 

127 


John  M as e field 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the  running 
tide 

Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied ; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds  flying, 

And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the  sea- 
gulls crying. 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again  to  the  vagrant  gypsy  life. 

To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the  wind's 
like  a  whetted  knife; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow- 
rover, 

And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long  trick's 
over. 


ROUNDING  THE  HORN 

(From  "Dauber")  * 

Then  came  the  cry  of  "Call  all  hands  on  deck!  " 
The  Dauber  knew  its  meaning;  it  was  come: 
Cape  Horn,  that  tramples  beauty  into  wreck, 
And  crumples  steel  and  smites  the  strong  man  dumb. 
Down  clattered  flying  kites  and  staysails;  some 
Sang  out  in  quick,  high  calls:  the  fair-leads  skirled, 
And  from  the  south-west  came  the  end  of  the 
world   ... 

1  From  The  Story  of  a  Round-House  by  John  Masefield. 
Copyright,  1913,  by  The  Macmillan  Company.  Reprinted  by 
permission  of  the  publishers. 

128 


John  M as e field 

"  Lay  out!  "  the  Bosun  yelled.     The  Dauber  laid 

Out  on  the  yard,  gripping  the  yard,  and  feeling 

Sick  at  the  mighty  space  of  air  displayed 

Below  his  feet,  where  mewing  birds  were  wheeling. 

A  giddy  fear  was  on  him ;  he  was  reeling. 

He  bit  his  lip  half  through,  clutching  the  jack. 

A  cold  sweat  glued  the  shirt  upon  his  back. 

The  yard  was  shaking,  for  a  brace  was  loose. 

He  felt  that  he  would  fall;  he  clutched,  he  bent, 

Clammy  with  natural  terror  to  the  shoes 

While  idiotic  promptings  came  and  went. 

Snow  fluttered  on  a  wind-flaw  and  was  spent; 

He  saw  the  water  darken.     Someone  yelled, 

"  Frap  it;  don't  stay  to  furl!    Hold  on !  "     He  held. 

Darkness  came  down — half  darkness — in  a  whirl; 

The  sky  went  out,  the  waters  disappeared. 

He  felt  a  shocking  pressure  of  blowing  hurl 

The  ship  upon  her  side.    The  darkness  speared 

At  her  with  wind ;  she  staggered,  she  careered ; 

Then  down  she  lay.    The  Dauber  felt  her  go, 

He  saw  her  yard  tilt  downwards.     Then  the  snow 

Whirled  all  about — dense,  multitudinous,  cold — 
Mixed  with  the  wind's  one  devilish  thrust  and  shriek, 
Which  whiffled  out  men's  tears,  defeated,  took  hold, 
Flattening  the  flying  drift  against  the  cheek. 
The  yards  buckled  and  bent,  man  could  not  speak. 
The  ship  lay  on  her  broadside ;  the  wind's  sound 
Had  devilish  malice  at  having  got  her  downed. 


129 


John  Masefield 

How  long  the  gale  had  blown  he  could  not  tell, 
Only  the  world  had  changed,  his  life  had  died. 
A  moment  now  was  everlasting  hell. 
Nature  an  onslaught  from  the  weather  side, 
A  withering  rush  of  death,  a  frost  that  cried, 
Shrieked,  till  he  withered  at  the  heart;  a  hail 
Plastered  his  oilskins  with  an  icy  mail.   .    .    . 

"  Up!  "  yelled  the  Bosun;  "up  and  clear  the  wreck!  " 
The  Dauber  followed  where  he  led;  below 
He  caught  one  giddy  glimpsing  of  the  deck 
Filled  with  white  water,  as  though  heaped  with  snow. 
He  saw  the  streamers  of  the  rigging  blow 
Straight  out  like  pennons  from  the  splintered  mast, 
Then,  all  sense  dimmed,  all  was  an  icy  blast. 

Roaring  from  nether  hell  and  filled  with  ice, 
Roaring  and  crashing  on  the  jerking  stage, 
An  utter  bridle  given  to  utter  vice, 
Limitless  power  mad  with  endless  rage 
Withering  the  soul ;  a  minute  seemed  an  age. 
He  clutched  and  hacked  at  ropes,  at  rags  of  sail, 
Thinking  that  comfort  was  a  fairy  tale, 

Told  long  ago — long,  long  ago — long  since 
Heard  of  in  other  lives — imagined,  dreamed — 
There  where  the  basest  beggar  was  a  prince. 
To  him  in  torment  where  the  tempest  screamed, 
Comfort  and  warmth  and  ease  no  longer  seemed 
Things  that  a  man  could  know;  soul,  body,  brain, 
Knew  nothing  but  the  wind,  the  cold,  the  pain. 
130 


John  M as e field 

THE  CHOICE 

The  Kings  go  by  with  jewelled  crowns; 
Their  horses  gleam,   their  banners  shake, 

their  spears  are  many. 
The  sack  of  many-peopled  towns 
Is  all  their  dream: 
The  way  they  take 
Leaves  but  a  ruin  in  the  brake, 
And,  in  the  furrow  that  the  ploughmen  make, 
A  stampless  penny;  a  tale,  a  dream. 

The  Merchants  reckon  up  their  gold, 
Their  letters  come,  their  ships  arrive,  their 

freights  are  glories: 
The  profits  of  their  treasures  sold 
They  tell  and  sum; 
Their  foremen  drive 
Their  servants,  starved  to  half-alive, 
Whose  labours  do  but  make  the  earth  a  hive 
Of  stinking  glories;  a.  tale,  a  dream. 

The  Priests  are  singing  in  their  stalls, 
Their  singing  lifts,  their  incense  burns, 

their  praying  clamours; 
Yet  God  is  as  the  sparrow  falls, 
The  ivy  drifts; 
The  votive  urns 

Are  all  left  void  when  Fortune  turns, 
The  god  is  but  a  marble  for  the  kerns 
To  break  with  hammers;  a  tale,  a  dream. 


John  Mase field 

O  Beauty,  let  me  know  again 

The  green  earth  cold,  the  April  rain,  the 

quiet  waters  figuring  sky, 
The  one  star  risen. 
So  shall  I  pass  into  the  feast 
Not  touched  by  King,  Merchant,  or  Priest; 
Know  the  red  spirit  of  the  beast, 
Be  the  green  grain; 
Escape  from  prison. 


SONNET1 

Is  there  a  great  green  commonwealth  of  Thought 

Which  ranks  the  yearly  pageant,  and  decides 

How  Summer's  royal  progress  shall  be  wrought, 

By  secret  stir  which  in  each  plant  abides? 

Does  rocking  daffodil  consent  that  she, 

The  snowdrop  of  wet  winters,  shall  be  first? 

Does  spotted  cowslip  with  the  grass  agree 

To  hold  her  pride  before  the  rattle  burst? 

And  in  the  hedge  what  quick  agreement  goes, 

When  hawthorn  blossoms  redden  to  decay, 

That  Summer's  pride  shall  come,  the  Summer's  rose, 

Before  the  flower  be  on  the  bramble  spray? 

Or  is  it,  as  with  us,  unresting  strife, 

And  each  consent  a  lucky  gasp  for  life? 

1  From  Good  Friday  and  Other  Poems  by  John  Masefield. 
Copyright,  1916,  by  The  Macmillan  Company.  Reprinted  by 
permission  of  the  publishers. 

132 


Lord  Dunsany 

Edward  John  Moreton  Drax  Plunkett,  Lord  Dunsany,  was 
born  July  24,  1878,  and  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Sandhurst. 
He  is  best  known  as  an  author  of  fantastic  fairy  tales  and  even 
more  fantastic  plays.  The  Gods  of  the  Mountain  (1911)  and 
The  Golden  Doom  (1912)  are  highly  dramatic  and  intensely 
poetic.  A  Night  at  an  Inn  (1916)  is  that  peculiar  novelty,  an 
eerie  and  poetical  melodrama. 

Dunsany's  prime  quality  is  a  romantic  and  highly  colored 
imagination  which  is  rich  in  symbolism.  After  the  World  War, 
in  which  the  playwright  served  as  captain  in  the  Royal  Innis- 
killing  Fusiliers,  Dunsany  visited  America  and  revised  the  re- 
issue of  his  early  tales  and  prose  poems  collected  in  his  The 
Book  of  Wonder. 


SONGS  FROM  AN  EVIL  WOOD 


There  is  no  wrath  in  the  stars, 
They  do  not  rage  in  the  sky; 

I  look  from  the  evil  wood 

And  find  myself  wondering  why. 

Why  do  they  not  scream  out 
And  grapple  star  against  star, 

Seeking  for  blood  in  the  wood 
As  all  things  round  me  are? 

They  do  not  glare  like  the  sky 

Or  flash  like  the  deeps  of  the  wood ; 

But  they  shine  softly  on 
In  their  sacred  solitude. 

133 


Lord  Dunsany 

To  their  high,  happy  haunts 

Silence  from  us  has  flown, 
She  whom  we  loved  of  old 

And  know  it  now  she  is  gone. 

When  will  she  come  again, 
Though  for  one  second  only? 

She  whom  we  loved  is  gone 
And  the  whole  world  is  lonely. 

And  the  elder  giants  come 
Sometimes,  tramping  from  far 

Through  the  weird  and  flickering  light 
Made  by  an  earthly  star. 

And  the  giant  with  his  club, 

And  the  dwarf  with  rage  in  his  breath, 
And  the  elder  giants  from  far, 

They  are  all  the  children  of  Death. 

They  are  all  abroad  to-night 

And  are  breaking  the  hills  with  their 
brood, — 

And  the  birds  are  all  asleep 
Even  in  Plug  Street  Wood! 

II 

Somewhere  lost  in  the  haze 
The  sun  goes  down  in  the  cold, 

And  birds  in  this  evil  wood 
Chirrup  home  as  of  old; 
134 


Lord  Dunsany 

Chirrup,  stir  and  are  still, 

On  the  high  twigs  frozen  and  thin. 
There  is  no  more  noise  of  them  now, 

And  the  long  night  sets  in. 

Of  all  the  wonderful  things 
That  I  have  seen  in  the  wood 

I  marvel  most  at  the  birds 
And  their  wonderful  quietude. 

For  a  giant  smites  with  his  club 
All  day  the  tops  of  the  hill, 

Sometimes  he  rests  at  night, 
Oftener  he  beats  them  still. 

And  a  dwarf  with  a  grim  black  mane 

Raps  with  repeated  rage 
All  night  in  the  valley  below 

On  the  wooden  walls  of  his  cage. 


ill 

I  met  with  Death  in  his  country, 
With  his  scythe  and  his  hollow  eye, 

Walking  the  roads  of  Belgium. 
I  looked  and  he  passed  me  by. 

Since  he  passed  me  by  in  Plug  Street, 
In  the  wood  of  the  evil  name, 

I  shall  not  now  lie  with  the  heroes, 
I  shall  not  share  their  fame ; 
135 


Lord  Dunsany 

I  shall  never  be  as  they  are, 

A  name  in  the  lands  of  the  Free, 

Since  I  looked  on  Death  in  Flanders 
And  he  did  not  look  at  me. 

Edward  Thomas 

Edward  Thomas,  one  of  the  little-known  but  most  individual 
of  modern  English  poets,  was  born  in  1878.  For  many  years 
before  he  turned  to  verse,  Thomas  had  a  large  following  as  a 
critic  and  author  of  travel  books,  biographies,  pot-boilers. 
Hating  his  hack-work,  yet  unable  to  get  free  of  it,  he  had  so 
repressed  his  creative  ability  that  he  had  grown  doubtful  con- 
cerning his  own  power.  It  needed  something  foreign  to  stir 
and  animate  what  was  native  in  him.  So  when  Robert  Frost, 
the  New  England  poet,  went  abroad  in  1912  for  two  years  and 
became  an  intimate  of  Thomas's,  the  English  critic  began  to 
write  poetry.  Loving,  like  Frost,  the  minut'ue  of  existence,  the 
quaint  and  casual  turn  of  ordinary  life,  he  caught  the  magic 
of  the  English  countryside  in  its  unpoeticized  quietude.  Many 
of  his  poems  are  full  of  a  slow,  sad  contemplation  of  life  and 
a  reflection  of  its  brave  futility.  It  is  not  disillusion  exactly; 
it  is  rather  an  absence  of  illusion.  Poems  (1917),  dedicated  to 
Robert  Frost,  is  full  of  Thomas's  fidelity  to  little  things,  things 
as  unglorified  as  the  unfreezing  of  the  "  rock-like  mud,"  a 
child's  path,  a  list  of  quaint-sounding  villages,  birds'  nests 
uncovered  by  the  autumn  wind,  dusty  nettles — the  lines  glow 
with  a  deep  and  almost  abject  reverence  for  the  soil. 

Thomas  was  killed  at  Arras,  at  an  observatory  outpost,  on 
Easter  Monday,  1917. 

IF  I  SHOULD  EVER  BY  CHANCE 

If  I  should  ever  by  chance  grow  rich 
I'll  buy  Codham,  Cockridden,  and  Childerditch, 
Roses,  Pyrgo,  and  Lapwater, 
And  let  them  all  to  my  elder  daughter. 
136 


Edward  Thomas 

The  rent  I  shall  ask  of  her  will  be  only 

Each  year's  first  violets,  white  and  lonely, 

The  first  primroses  and  orchises — 

She  must  find  them  before  I  do,  that  is. 

But  if  she  finds  a  blossom  on  furze 

Without  rent  they  shall  all  for  ever  be  hers, 

Codham,  Cockridden,  and  Childerditch, 

Roses,  Pyrgo  and  Lapwater, — 

I  shall  give  them  all  to  my  elder  daughter. 


TALL  NETTLES 

Tall  nettles  cover  up,  as  they  have  done 
These  many  springs,  the  rusty  harrow,  the  plough 
Long  worn  out,  and  the  roller  made  of  stone: 
Only  the  elm  butt  tops  the  nettles  now. 

This  corner  of  the  farmyard  I  like  most: 
As  well  as  any  bloom  upon  a  flower 
I  like  the  dust  on  the  nettles,  never  lost 
Except  to  prove  the  sweetness  of  a  shower. 


FIFTY  FAGGOTS 

There  they  stand,  on  their  ends,  the  fifty  faggots 
That  once  were  underwood  of  hazel  and  ash 
In  Jenny  Pinks's  Copse.     Now,  by  the  hedge 
Close  packed,  they  make  a  thicket  fancy  alone 
137 


Edward  Thomas 

Can  creep  through  with  the  mouse  and  wren.    Next 

Spring 

A  blackbird  or  a  robin  will  nest  there, 
Accustomed  to  them,  thinking  they  will  remain 
Whatever  is  for  ever  to  a  bird. 
This  Spring  it  is  too  late;  the  swift  has  come, 
'Twas  a  hot  day  for  carrying  them  up: 
Better  they  will  never  warm  me,  though  they  must 
Light  several  Winters'  fires.     Before  they  are  done 
The  war  will  have  ended,  many  other  things 
Have  ended,  maybe,  that  I  can  no  more 
Foresee  or  more  control  than  robin  and  wren. 


COCK-CROW 

Out  of  the  wood  of  thoughts  that  grows  by  night 
To  be  cut  down  by  the  sharp  axe  of  light, — 
Out  of  the  night,  two  cocks  together  crow, 
Cleaving  the  darkness  with  a  silver  blow: 
And  bright  before  my  eyes  twin  trumpeters  stand, 
Heralds  of  splendour,  one  at  either  hand, 
Each  facing  each  as  in  a  coat  of  arms: — 
The  milkers  lace  their  boots  up  at  the  farms. 


Seumas  O' Sullivan 

James  Starkey  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1879.  Writing  under 
the  pseudonym  of  Seumas  O'Sullivan,  he  contributed  a  great 
variety  of  prose  and  verse  to  various  Irish  papers.  His  repu- 

138 


Seumas  O' Sullivan 

tation  as  a  poet  began  with  his  appearance  in  New  Songs, 
edited  by  George  Russell  ("A.  E.").  Later,  he  published  The 
Twilight  People  (1905),  The  Earth  Lover  (1909),  and  Poems 
(1912). 

PRAISE 


Dear,  they  are  praising  your  beauty, 
The  grass  and  the  sky: 
The  sky  in  a  silence  of  wonder, 
The  grass  in  a  sigh. 

I  too  would  sing  for  your  praising, 
Dearest,  had  I 

Speech  as  the  whispering  grass, 
Or  the  silent  sky. 

These  have  an  art  for  the  praising 
Beauty  so  high. 

Sweet,  you  are  praised  in  a  silence, 
Sung  in  a  sigh. 


Ralph  Hodgson 

This  exquisite  poet  was  born  in  Northumberland  about  1879, 
One  of  the  most  graceful  of  the  younger  word-magicians,  Ralph 
Hodgson  will  retain  his  freshness  as  long  as  there  are  lovers 
of  such  rare  and  timeless  songs  as  his.  It  is  difficult  to  think 
of  any  anthology  of  English  poetry  compiled  after  1917  that 
could  omit  "  Eve,"  "  The  Song  of  Honor,"  and  that  memorable 
snatch  of  music,  "  Time,  You  Old  Gypsy  Man."  One  succumbs 
to  the  charm  of  "Eve"  at  the  first  reading;  for  here  is  the 

139 


Ralph  Hodgson 

oldest  of  all  legends  told  with  a  surprising  simplicity  and 
still  more  surprising  freshness.  This  Eve  is  neither  the  con- 
scious sinner  nor  the  Mother  of  men;  she  is,  in  Hodgson's 
candid  lines,  any  young,  English  country  girl — filling  her 
basket,  regarding  the  world  and  the  serpent  itself  with  a  mild 
and  childlike  wonder. 

Hodgson's  verses,  full  of  the   love  of   all   natural   things,   a 
love  that  goes  out  to 

"  an  idle  rainbow 
No  less  than  laboring  seas," 

were  originally  brought  out  in  small  pamphlets,  and  distributed 
by  Flying  Fame. 


EVE 

Eve,  with  her  basket,  was 
Deep  in  the  bells  and  grass, 
Wading  in  bells  and  grass 
Up  to  her  knees. 
Picking  a  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 
Down  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Under  the  trees. 

Mute  as  a  mouse  in  a 
Corner  the  cobra  lay, 
Curled  round  a  bough  of  the 
Cinnamon  tall.   .    .    . 
Now  to  get  even  and 
Humble  proud  heaven  and 
Now  was  the  moment  or 
Never  at  all. 

140 


Ralph  Hodgson 

"Eva!"     Each  syllable 
Light  as  a  flower  fell, 
"Eva!"  he  whispered  the 
Wondering  maid, 
Soft  as  a  bubble  sung 
Out  of  a  linnet's  lung, 
Soft  and  most  silverly 
"Eva!"  he  said. 

Picture  that  orchard  sprite; 
Eve,  with  her  body  white, 
Supple  and  smooth  to  her 
Slim  finger  tips; 
Wondering,  listening, 
Listening,  wondering, 
Eve  with  a  berry 
Half-way  to  her  lips. 

Oh,  had  our  simple  Eve 
Seen  through  the  make-believe! 
Had  she  but  known  the 
Pretender  he  was! 
Out  of  the  boughs  he  came, 
Whispering  still  her  name, 
Tumbling  in  twenty  rings 
Into  the  grass. 

Here  was  the  strangest  pair 
In  the  world  anywhere, 
Eve  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Kneeling,  and  he 
141 


Ralph  Hodgson 

Telling  his  story  low.   .    .    . 
Singing  birds  saw  them  go 
Down  the  dark  path  to 
The  Blasphemous  Tree. 

Oh,  what  a  clatter  when 
Titmouse  and  Jenny  Wren 
Saw  him  successful  and 
Taking  his  leave! 
How  the  birds  rated  him, 
How  they  all  hated  him ! 
How  they  all  pitied 
Poor  motherless  Eve! 

Picture  her  crying 
Outside  in  the  lane, 
Eve,  with  no  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 
Haunting  the  gate  of  the 
Orchard  in  vain.   .    .    . 
Picture  the  lewd  delight 
Under  the  hill  to-night— 
"  Eva!  "  the  toast  goes  round, 
"  Eva! "  again. 

TIME,  YOU  OLD  GIPSY  MAN 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man, 

Will  you  not  stay, 
Put  up  your  caravan 

Just  for  one  day? 
142 


Ralph  Hodgson 

All  things  I'll  give  you 
Will  you  be  my  guest, 
Bells  for  your  jennet 
Of  silver  the  best, 
Goldsmiths  shall  beat  you 
A  great  golden  ring, 
Peacocks  shall  bow  to  you, 
Little  boys  sing, 
Oh,  and  sweet  girls  will 
Festoon  you  with  may. 
Time,  you  old  gipsy, 
Why  hasten  away? 

Last  week  in  Babylon, 

Last  night  in  Rome, 

Morning,  and  in  the  crush 

Under  Paul's  dome; 

Under  Paul's  dial 

You  tighten  your  rein — 

Only  a  moment, 

And  off  once  again; 

Off  to  some  city 

Now  blind  in  the  womb, 

Off  to  another 

Ere  that's  in  the  tomb. 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man, 
Will  you  not  stay, 

Put  up  your  caravan 
Just  for  one  day? 
H3 


Ralph  Hodgson 

THE  BIRDCATCHER 

When  flighting  time  is  on,  I  go 
With  clap-net  and  decoy, 
A-fowling  after  goldfinches 
And  other  birds  of  joy; 

I  lurk  among  the  thickets  of 
The  Heart  where  they  are  bred, 
And  catch  the  twittering  beauties  as 
They  fly  into  my  Head. 

THE  MYSTERY 

He  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand 

Up  to  a  red  rose  tree, 
He  kept  His  meaning  to  Himself 

But  gave  a  rose  to  me. 

I  did  not  pray  Him  to  lay  bare 

The  mystery  to  me, 
Enough  the  rose  was  Heaven  to  smell, 

And  His  own  face  to  see. 

Harold  Monro 

The  publisher  of  the  various  anthologies  of  Georgian  Poetry, 
Harold  Monro,  was  born  in  Brussels  in  1879.  He  describes 
himself  as  "  author,  publisher,  editor  and  book-seller."  Monro 

144 


Harold  Monro 

founded  The  Poetry  Bookshop  in  London  in  1912,  a  unique 
establishment  having  as  its  object  a  practical  relation  between 
poetry  and  the  public,  and  keeping  in  stock  nothing  but  poetry, 
the  drama,  and  books  connected  with  these  subjects.  His  quar- 
terly Poetry  and  Drama  (discontinued  during  the  war  and  re- 
vived in  1919  as  The  Monthly  Chapbook),  was  in  a  sense  the 
organ  of  the  younger  men;  and  his  shop,  in  which  he  has  lived 
for  the  last  seven  years  except  while  he  was  in  the  army, 
became  a  genuine  literary  center. 

Of  Monro's  books,  the  two  most  important  are  Strange  Meet- 
ings (1917)  and  Children  of  Love  (1919).  "The  Nightingale 
Near  the  House,"  one  of  the  loveliest  of  his  poems,  is  also  one 
of  his  latest  and  has  not  yet  appeared  in  any  of  his  volumes. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  NEAR  THE  HOUSE 

Here  is  the  soundless  cypress  on  the  lawn: 
It  listens,  listens.     Taller  trees  beyond 
Listen.    The  moon  at  the  unruffled  pond 
Stares.    And  you  sing,  you  sing. 

That  star-enchanted  song  falls  through  the  air 
From  lawn  to  lawn  down  terraces  of  sound, 
Darts  in  white  arrows  on  the  shadowed  ground ; 
And  all  the  night  you  sing. 

My  dreams  are  flowers  to  which  you  are  a  bee 
As  all  night  long  I  listen,  and  my  brain 
Receives  your  song;  then  loses  it  again 
In  moonlight  on  the  lawn. 

Now  is  your  voice  a  marble  high  and  white, 
Then  like  a  mist  on  fields  of  paradise, 
Now  is  a  raging  fire,  then  is  like  ice, 
Then  breaks,  and  it  is  dawn. 
145 


Harold  Monro 


EVERY  THING 

Since  man  has  been  articulate, 

Mechanical,  improvidently  wise, 

(Servant  of  Fate), 

He  has  not  understood  the  little  cries 

And  foreign  conversations  of  the  small 

Delightful  creatures  that  have  followed  him 

Not  far  behind; 

Has  failed  to  hear  the  sympathetic  call 

Of  Crockery  and  Cutlery,  those  kind 

Reposeful  Teraphim 

Of  his  domestic  happiness;  the  Stool 

He  sat  on,  or  the  Door  he  entered  through: 

He  has  not  thanked  them,  overbearing  fool! 

What  is  he  coming  to? 

But  you  should  listen  to  the  talk  of  these. 
Honest  they  are,  and  patient  they  have  kept; 
Served    him    without    his    Thank    you    or    his 

Please   .    .    . 
I  often  heard 

The  gentle  Bed,  a  sigh  between  each  word, 
Murmuring,  before  I  slept. 
The  Candle,  as  I  blew  it,  cried  aloud, 
Then  bowed, 
And  in  a  smoky  argument 
Into  the  darkness  went. 
146 


Harold  Monro 

The  Kettle  puffed  a  tentacle  of  breath: — 
"  Pooh !     I  have  boiled  his  water,  I  don't  know 
Why;  and  he  always  says  I  boil  too  slow. 
He  never  calls  me  "  Sukie,  dear/'  and  oh, 
I  wonder  why  I  squander  my  desire 
Sitting  submissive  on  his  kitchen  fire." 

Now  the  old  Copper  Basin  suddenly 

Rattled  and  tumbled  from  the  shelf, 

Bumping  and  crying:  "  I  can  fall  by  myself; 

Without  a  woman's  hand 

To  patronize  and  coax  and  flatter  me, 

I  understand 

The  lean  and  poise  of  gravitable  land." 

It  gave  a  raucous  and  tumultuous  shout, 

Twisted  itself  convulsively  about, 

Rested  upon  the  floor,  and,  while  I  stare, 

It  stares  and  grins  at  me. 

The  old  impetuous  Gas  above  my  head 
Begins  irascibly  to  flare  and  fret, 
Wheezing  into  its  epileptic  jet, 
Reminding  me  I  ought  to  go  to  bed. 

The  Rafters  creak ;  an  Empty-Cupboard  door 
Swings  open ;  now  a  wild  Plank  of  the  floor 
Breaks  from  its  joist,  and  leaps  behind  my  foot. 
Down  from  the  chimney,  half  a  pound  of  Soot 
Tumbles  and  lies,  and  shakes  itself  again. 
The  Putty  cracks  against  the  window-pane. 
H7 


Harold  Monro 

A  piece  of  Paper  in  the  basket  shoves 
Another  piece,  and  toward  the  bottom  moves. 
My  independent  Pencil,  while  I  write, 
Breaks  at  the  point:  the  ruminating  Clock 
Stirs  all  its  body  and  begins  to  rock, 
Warning  the  waiting  presence  of  the  Night, 
Strikes  the  dead  hour,  and  tumbles  to  the  plain 
Ticking  of  ordinary  work  again. 

You  do  well  to  remind  me,  and  I  praise 

Your  strangely  individual  foreign  ways. 

You  call  me  from  myself  to  recognize 

Companionship  in  your  unselfish  eyes. 

I  want  your  dear  acquaintances,  although 

I  pass  you  arrogantly  over,  throw 

Your  lovely  sounds,  and  squander  them  along 

My  busy  days.    I'll  do  you  no  more  wrong. 

Purr  for  me,  Sukie,  like  a  faithful  cat. 

You,  my  well  trampled  Boots,  and  you,  my  Hat, 

Remain  my  friends:  I  feel,  though  I  don't  speak, 

Your  touch  grow  kindlier  from  week  to  week. 

It  well  becomes  our  mutual  happiness 

To  go  toward  the  same  end  more  or  less. 

There  is  not  much  dissimilarity, 

Not  much  to  choose,  I  know  it  well,  in  fine, 

Between  the  purposes  of  you  and  me, 

And  your  eventual  Rubbish  Heap,  and  mine. 


Harold  Monro 

STRANGE  MEETINGS 

If  suddenly  a  clod  of  earth  should  rise, 
And  walk  about,  and  breathe,  and  speak,  and  love, 
How  one  would  tremble,  and  in  what  surprise 
Gasp:  "  Can  you  move?  " 

I  see  men  walking,  and  I  always  feel: 

"  Earth!    How  have  you  done  this?    What  can 

you  be?" 

I  can't  learn  how  to  know  men,  or  conceal 
How  strange  they  are  to  me. 


T.  M.  Kettle 

Thomas  M.  Kettle  was  born  at  Artane  County,  Dublin,  in 
1880  and  was  educated  at  University  College,  where  he  won 
the  Gold  Medal  for  Oratory.  His  extraordinary  faculty  for 
grasping  an  intricate  problem  and  crystallizing  it  in  an  epi- 
gram, or  scoring  his  adversaries  with  one  bright  flash,  was 
apparent  even  then.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1905  but 
soon  abandoned  the  law  to  devote  himself  to  journalism,  which, 
because  of  his  remarkable  style,  never  remained  journalism 
in  his  hands.  In  1906  he  entered  politics;  in  1910  he  was 
re-elected  for  East  Tyrone.  Even  his  bitterest  opponents  con- 
ceded that  Tom  Kettle  (as  he  was  called  by  friend  and  enemy) 
was  the  most  honorable  of  fighters;  they  acknowledged  his 
honesty,  courage  and  devotion  to  the  cause  of  a  United  Ireland 
— and  respected  his  penetrating  wit.  He  once  spoke  of  a  Mr. 
Healy  as  "  a  brilliant  calamity "  and  satirized  a  long-winded 
speaker  by  saying,  "  Mr.  Long  knows  a  sentence  should  have  a 
beginning,  but  he  quite  forgets  it  should  also  have  an  end." 

149 


T.  M.  Kettle 

"An  Irish  torch-bearer"  (so  E.  B.  Osborn  calls  him),  Kettle 
fell  in  action  at  Ginchy,  leading  his  Fusiliers  in  September, 
1916.  The  uplifted  poem  to  his  daughter  was  written  shortly 
before  his  death. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  BETTY,  THE  GIFT 
OF  GOD 

In  wiser  days,  my  darling  rosebud,  blown 
To  beauty  proud  as  was  your  mother's  prime, 
In  that  desired,  delayed,  incredible  time, 
You'll  ask  why  I  abandoned  you,  my  own, 
And  the  dear  heart  that  was  your  baby  throne, 
To  dice  with  death.     And  oh!  they'll  give  you 

rhyme 

And  reason :  some  will  call  the  thing  sublime, 
And  some  decry  it  in  a  knowing  tone. 
So  here,  while  the  mad  guns  curse  overhead, 
And  tired  men  sigh  with  mud  for  couch  and  floor, 
Know  that  we  fools,  now  with  the  foolish  dead, 
Died  not  for  flag,  nor  King,  nor  Emperor, — 
But  for  a  dream,  born  in  a  herdsman's  shed, 
And  for  the  secret  Scripture  of  the  poor. 

Alfred  Noyes 

Alfred  Noyes  was  born  at  Staffordshire,  September  16,  1880. 
He  is  one  of  the  few  contemporary  poets  who  have  been  for- 
tunate enough  to  write  a  kind  of  poetry  that  is  not  only  saleable 
but  popular  with  many  classes  of  people. 

His  first  book,  The  Loom  of  Years  (1902),  was  published 
when  he  was  only  22  years  old,  and  Poems  (1904)  intensified 
the  promise  of  his  first  publication.  Swinburne>  grown  old  and 

150 


Alfred  Noyes 

living  in  retirement,  was  so  struck  with  Noyes's  talent  that  he 
had  the  young  poet  out  to  read  to  him.  Unfortunately,  Noyes 
has  not  developed  his  gifts  as  deeply  as  his  admirers  have 
hoped.  His  poetry,  extremely  straightforward  and  rhythmical, 
has  often  degenerated  into  cheap  sentimentalities  and  cheaper 
tirades;  it  has  frequently  attempted  to  express  programs  and 
profundities  far  beyond  Noyes's  power. 

What  is  most  appealing  about  his  best  verse  is  its  ease  and 
heartiness;  this  singer's  gift  lies  in  the  almost  personal  bond 
established  between  the  poet  and  his  public.  People  have  such 
a  good  time  reading  his  vivacious  lines  because  Noyes  had  such 
a  good  time  writing  them.  Rhyme  in  a  thumping  rhythm  seems 
to  be  not  merely  his  trade  but  his  morning  exercise.  Noyes's 
own  relish  filled  and  quickened  glees  and  catches  like  Forty 
Singing  Seamen  (1907),  the  lusty  choruses  in  Tales  of  the 
Mermaid  Tavern  (1913),  and  the  genuinely  inspired  nonsense 
of  the  earlier  Forest  of  Wild  Thyme  (1905). 

The  least  popular  work  of  Noyes  is,  as  a  unified  product, 
his  most  remarkable  performance.  It  is  an  epic  in  twelve 
books  of  blank  verse,  Drake  (1908),  a  glowing  pageant  of  the 
sea  and  England's  drama  upon  it.  It  is  a  spirited  echo  of  the 
maritime  Elizabethans;  a  vivid  and  orchestral  work  inter- 
spersed with  splendid  lyric  passages  and  brisk  songs.  The 
companion  volume,  an  attempted  reconstruction  of  the  literary 
phase  of  the  same  period,  is  less  successful ;  but  these  Tales 
of  the  Mermaid  Tavern  (which  introduce  Shakespeare,  Mar- 
lowe, Drayton,  Raleigh,  Ben  Jonson,  and  other  immortals)  are 
alive  and  colorful,  if  somewhat  too  insistently  rollicking  and 
smoothly  lilting. 

His  eight  volumes  were  assembled  in  1913  and  published  in 
two  books  of  Collected  Poems  (Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company). 

SHERWOOD 

Sherwood  in  the  twilight,  is  Robin  Hood  awake? 
Grey  and  ghostly  shadows  are  gliding  through  the  brake  ; 
Shadows  of  the  dappled  deer,  dreaming  of  the  morn, 
Dreaming  of  a  shadowy  man  that  winds  a  shadowy  horn. 


Alfred  Noyes 

Robin  Hood  is  here  again:  all  his  merry  thieves 
Hear  a  ghostly  bugle-note  shivering  through  the  leaves, 
Calling  as  he  used  to  call,  faint  and  far  away, 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Merry,  merry  England  has  kissed  the  lips  of  June: 
All  the  wings  of  fairyland  were  here  beneath  the  moon; 
Like  a  flight  of  rose-leaves  fluttering  in  a  mist 
Of  opal  and  ruby  and  pearl  and  amethyst. 

Merry,  merry  England  is  waking  as  of  old, 
With  eyes  of  blither  hazel  and  hair  of  brighter  gold: 
For  Robin  Hood  is  here  again  beneath  the  bursting  spray 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Love  is  in  the  greenwood  building  him  a  house 
Of  wild  rose  and  hawthorn  and  honeysuckle  boughs; 
Love  it  in  the  greenwood :  dawn  is  in  the  skies ; 
And  Marian  is  waiting  with  a  glory  in  her  eyes. 

Hark!     The  dazzled  laverock  climbs  the  golden  steep: 

Marian  is  waiting:  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Round  the  fairy  grass-rings  frolic  elf  and  fay, 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Oberon,  Oberon,  rake  away  the  gold, 
Rake  away  the  red  leaves,  roll  away  the  mould, 
Rake  away  the  gold  leaves,  roll  away  the  red, 
And  wake  Will  Scarlett  from  his  leafy  forest  bed. 

152 


Alfred  Noyes 

Friar  Tuclc  and  Little  John  are  riding  down  together 

With  quarter-staff  and  drinking-can  and  grey  goose- 
feather  ; 

The  dead  are  coming  back  again;  the  years  are  rolled 
away 

In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 

Softly  over  Sherwood  the  south  wind  blows; 

All  the  heart  of  England  hid  in  every  rose 

Hears  across  the  greenwood  the  sunny  whisper  leap, 

Sherwood  in  the  red  dawn,  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Hark,  the  voice  of  England  wakes  him  as  of  old 
And,  shattering  the  silence  with  a  cry  of  brighter  gold, 
Bugles  in  the  greenwood  echo  from  the  steep, 
Sherwood  in  the  red  dawn,  is  Robin  Hood  asleep? 

Where  the  deer  are  gliding  down  the  shadowy  glen 
All  across  the  glades  of  fern  he  calls  his  merry  men ; 
Doublets  of  the  Lincoln  green  glancing  through  the  May, 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day; 

Calls  them  and  they  answer:  from  aisles  of  oak  and  ash 
Rings   the   Follow!  Follow!   and   the   boughs   begin    to 

crash ; 

The  ferns  begin  to  flutter  and  the  flowers  begin  to  fly ; 
And    through    the    crimson    dawning    the    robber    band 

goes  by. 

153 


Alfred  Noyes 

Robin!    Robin!    Robin!    All  his  merry  thieves 
Answer  as  the  bugle-note  shivers  through  the  leaves: 
Calling  as  he  used  to  call,  faint  and  far  away, 
In  Sherwood,  in  Sherwood,  about  the  break  of  day. 


THE  BARREL-ORGAN 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
And  the  music's  not  immortal;  but  the  world  has  made 

it  sweet 

And  fulfilled  it  with  the  sunset  glow; 
And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City  and  the 

pain 
That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large  eternal 

light; 

And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play  again 
In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 

And  now  it's  marching  onward  through  the  realms  of 

old  romance, 

And  trolling  out  a  fond  familiar  tune, 
And  now  it's  roaring  cannon  down  to  fight  the  King  of 

France, 

And  now  it's  prattling  softly  to  the  moon. 
And  all  around  the  organ  there's  a  sea  without  a  shore 

Of  human  joys  and  wonders  and  regrets; 
To  remember  and  to  recompense  the  music  evermore 
For  what  the  cold  machinery  forgets  .    .    . 
154 


Alfred  Noyes 

Yes ;  as  the  music  changes, 

Like  a  prismatic  glass, 
It  takes  the  light  and  ranges 

Through  all  the  moods  that  pass ; 
Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets, 
And  gives  the  world  a  glimpse  of  all 

The  colours  it  forgets. 

And  there  La  Traviata  sighs 

Another  sadder  song; 
And  there  //  Trovatore  cries 

A  tale  of  deeper  wrong; 
And  bolder  knights  to  battle  go 

With  sword  and  shield  and  lance, 
Than  ever  here  on  earth  below 

Have  whirled  into — a  dance! — 

Go  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time ; 
Go  down    to   Kew   in   lilac-time    (it   isn't   far   from 

London!) 

And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  sum- 
mer's wonderland ; 

Go  down   to   Kew  in   lilac-time    (it   isn't   far   from 
London ! ) 

The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom  and  soft  perfume  and 

sweet  perfume, 

The  cherry-trees  are  seas  of  bloom   (and  oh,  so  near 
to  London!) 

155 


Alfred  Noyes 

And  there  they  say,  when  dawn  is  high  and  all  the  world's 

a  blaze  of  sky 

The  cuckoo,  though  he's  very  shy,  will  sing  a  song 
for  London. 

The  nightingale  is  rather  rare  and  yet  they  say  you'll 

hear  him  there 
At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time    (and  oh,  so  near  to 

London!) 
The  linnet  and  the  throstle,  too,  and  after  dark  the  long 

halloo 

And  golden-eyed  tu-whit,  tu-whoo  of  owls  that  ogle 
London. 

For  Noah  hardly  knew  a  bird  of  any  kind  that  isn't  heard 
At  Kew,  at  Kew  in  lilac-time    (and  oh,  so  near  to 

London!) 
And  when  the  rose  begins  to  pout  and  all  the  chestnut 

spires  are  out 

You'll  hear  the  rest  without  a  doubt,   all  chorusing 
for  London: — 

Come  down  to  Kew  iw  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac- 
time; 
Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time    (it  isn't  far  from 

London!) 

And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  love  in  sum- 
mer's wonderland; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time    (is  isn't  far  from 
London!) 

156 


Alfred  Noyes 

And    then   the   troubadour   begins   to   thrill   the   golden 

street, 

In  the  city  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 
And  in  all  the  gaudy  busses  there  are  scores  of  weary 

feet 

Marking  time,  sweet  time,  with  a  dull  mechanic  beat, 
And  a  thousand  hearts  are  plunging  to  a  love  they'll  never 

meet, 
Through  the  meadows  of  the  sunset,  through  the  poppies 

and  the  wheat, 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

Verdi,   Verdi,   when  you  wrote  //   Trovatore   did   you 

dream 

Of  the  City  when  the  sun  sinks  low, 
Of  the  organ  and   the  monkey  and   the  many-coloured 

stream 
On   the   Piccadilly  pavement,   of   the  myriad   eyes   that 

seem 

To  be  litten  for  a  moment  with  a  wild  Italian  gleam 
As  A  che  la  morte  parodies  the  world's  eternal  theme 
And  pulses  with  the  sunset-glow? 

There's  a  thief,  perhaps,  that  listens  with  a  face  of  frozen 

stone 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
There's  a  portly  man  of  business  with  a  balance  of  his 

own, 

'here's  a  clerk  and  there's  a  butcher  of  a  soft  reposeful 
tone, 

157 


Alfred  Noyes 

And  they're  all  of  them  returning  to  the  heavens  they 

have  known : 
They  are  crammed  and  jammed  in  busses  and — they're 

each  of  them  alone 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

There's  a  labourer  that  listens  to  the  voices  of  the  dead 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low ; 

And  his  hand  begins  to  tremble  and  his  face  is  rather  red 
As  he  sees  a  loafer  watching  him  and — there  he  turns  his 

head 

And  stares  into  the  sunset  where  his  April  love  is  fled, 
For  he  hears  her  softly  singing  and  his  lonely  soul  is  led 

Through  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go  ... 

There's  a  barrel-organ  carolling  across  a  golden  street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  low; 
Though  the  music's  only  Verdi  there's  a  world  to  make  it 

sweet 
Just  as  yonder  yellow  sunset  where  the  earth  and  heaven 

meet 
Mellows  all  the  sooty  City!     Hark,  a  hundred  thousand 

feet 
Are  marching  on  to  glory  through  the  poppies  and  the 

wheat 
In  the  land  where  the  dead  dreams  go. 

So  it's  Jeremiah,  Jeremiah, 

What  have  you  to  say 
When  you  meet  the  garland  girls 

Tripping  on  their  way? 

158 


Alfred  Noyes 

All  around  my  gala  hat 

I  wear  a  wreath  of  roses 
(A  long  and  lonely  year  it  is 

I've  waited  for  the  May!) 
If  any  one  should  ask  you, 

The  reason  why  I  wear  it  is — 
My  own  love,  my  true  love  is  coming 
home  to-day. 

And  it's  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady 

(It's  lilac-time  in  London;  it's  lilac-time  in  London!) 

Buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady; 
While  the  sky  burns  blue  above : 

On  the  other  side  the  street  you'll  find  it  shady 

(It's  lilac-time  in  London;  it's  lilac-time  in  London!) 

But  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  the  lady, 
And  tell  her  she's  your  own  true  love. 

There's     a     barrel-organ     carolling     across     a     golden 

street 

In  the  City  as  the  sun  sinks  glittering  and  slow; 
And  the  music's  not  immortal;  but  the  world  has  made 

it  sweet 
And  enriched  it  with  the  harmonies  that  make  a  song 

complete 

In  the  deeper  heavens  of  music  where  the  night  and  morn- 
ing meet, 

As  it  dies  into  the  sunset  glow; 
159 


Alfred  Noyes 

And  it  pulses  through  the  pleasures  of  the  City  and  the 

pain 
That  surround  the  singing  organ  like  a  large  eternal 

light, 

And  they've  given  it  a  glory  and  a  part  to  play  again 
In  the  Symphony  that  rules  the  day  and  night. 

And  there,  as  the  music  changes, 

The  song  runs  round  again ; 
Once  more  it  turns  and  ranges 

Through  all  its  joy  and  pain: 
Dissects  the  common  carnival 

Of  passions  and  regrets; 
And  the  wheeling  world  remembers  all 

The  wheeling  song  forgets. 

Once  more  La  Traviata  sighs 

Another  sadder  song: 
Once  more  //  Trovatore  cries 

A  tale  of  deeper  wrong; 
Once  more  the  knights  to  battle  go 

With  sword  and  shield  and  lance 
Till  once,  once  more,  the  shattered  foe 

Has  whirled  into — a  dance! 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac-time,  in  lilac- 
time; 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time    (it  isn't  far  from 
London!) 

160 


Alfred  Noyes 

And  you  shall  wander  hand  in  hand  with  Love  in  sum- 
mer's wonderland, 

Come  down  to  Kew  in  lilac-time  (it  isn't  far  from 
London!) 


EPILOGUE 

(From  "  The  Flower  of  Old  Japan  ") 

Carol,  every  violet  has 
Heaven  for  a  looking-glass ! 

Every  little  valley  lies 
Under  many-clouded  skies; 
Every  little  cottage  stands 
Girt  about  with  boundless  lands. 
Every  little  glimmering  pond 
Claims  the  mighty  shores  beyond — 
Shores  no  seamen  ever  hailed, 
Seas  no  ship  has  ever  sailed. 

All  the  shores  when  day  is  done 
Fade  into  the  setting  sun, 
So  the  story  tries  to  teach 
More  than  can  be  told  in  speech. 

Beauty  is  a  fading  flower, 
Truth  is  but  a  wizard's  tower, 
Where  a  solemn  death-bell  tolls, 
And  a  forest  round  it  rolls. 
161 


Alfred  Noyes 

We  have  come  by  curious  ways 
To  the  light  that  holds  the  days; 
We  have  sought  in  haunts  of  fear 
For  that  all-enfolding  sphere: 
And  lo !  it  was  not  far,  but  near. 
We  have  found,  O  foolish-fond, 
The  shore  that  has  no  shore  beyond. 

Deep  in  every  heart  it  lies 
With  its  untranscended  skies; 
For  what  heaven  should  bend  above 
Hearts  that  own  the  heaven  of  love  ? 

Carol,  Carol,  we  have  come 
Back  to  heaven,  back  to  home. 

Padraic  Colum 

Padraic  Colum  was  born  at  Longford,  Ireland  (in  the  same 
county  as  Oliver  Goldsmith),  December  8,  1881,  and  was  edu- 
cated at  the  local  schools.  At  20  he  was  a  member  of  a  group 
that  created  the  Irish  National  Theatre,  afterwards  called  The 
Abbey  Theatre. 

Colum  began  as  a  dramatist  with  Broken  Soil  (1904),  The 
Land  (1905),  Thomas  Muskerry  (1910),  and  this  early  dramatic 
influence  has  colored  much  of  his  work,  his  best  poetry  being 
in  the  form  of  dramatic  lyrics.  Wild  Earth,  his  most  notable 
collection  of  verse,  first  appeared  in  1909,  and  an  amplified  edi- 
tion of  it  was  published  in  America  in  1916. 

THE  PLOUGHER 

Sunset  and  silence!     A  man:  around  him  earth  savage, 

earth  broken ; 

Beside  him  two  horses — a  plough! 

162 


Padraic  Colum 

Earth  savage,  earth  broken,  the  brutes,  the  dawn  man 

there  in  the  sunset, 
And  the  Plough  that  is  twin  to  the  Sword,  that  is  founder 

of  cities! 

"Brute-tamer,     plough-maker,     earth-breaker!       Can'st 

hear? 

There  are  ages  between  us. 
"  Is  it  praying  you  are  as  you  stand  there  alone  in  the 

sunset  ? 

"  Surely  our  sky-born  gods  can  be  naught  to  you,  earth 

child  and  earth  master? 
"  Surely  your  thoughts  are  of  Pan,   or  of  Wotan,   or 

Dana? 

"  Yet,  why  give  thought  to  the  gods?    Has  Pan  led  your 

brutes  where  they  stumble  ? 
"  Has  Dana  numbed  pain  of  the  child-bed,  or  Wotan  put 

hands  to  your  plough  ? 

"  What  matter  your  foolish  reply!     O,   man,  standing 

lone  and  bowed  earthward, 
"  Your  task  is  a  day  near  its  close.     Give  thanks  to  the 

night-giving  God." 

Slowly  the  darkness  falls,  the  broken  lands  blend  with 

the  savage; 
The  brute-tamer  stands  by  the  brutes,  a  head's  breadth 

only  above  them. 

163 


Padraic  Colum 

A  head's  breadth?  Ay,  but  therein  is  hell's  depth,  and 

the  height  up  to  heaven, 
And  the  thrones  of  the  gods  and  their  halls,  their  chariots, 

purples,  and  splendors. 


AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  ROADS 

O,  to  have  a  little  house ! 
To  own  the  hearth  and  stool  and  all! 
The  heaped  up  sods  upon  the  fire, 
The  pile  of  turf  against  the  wall! 

To  have  a  clock  with  weights  and  chains 
And  pendulum  swinging  up  and  down ! 
A  dresser  filled  with  shining  delph, 
Speckled  and  white  and  blue  and  brown ! 

I  could  be  busy  all  the  day 

Clearing  and  sweeping  hearth  and  floor, 

And  fixing  on  their  shelf  again 

My  white  and  blue  and  speckled  store! 

I  could  be  quiet  there  at  night 

Beside  the  fire  and  by  myself, 

Sure  of  a  bed  and  loth  to  leave 

The  ticking  clock  and  the  shining  delph! 

Och!  but  I'm  weary  of  mist  and  dark, 
And  roads  where  there's  never  a  house  nor  bush, 
And  tired  I  am  of  bog  and  road, 
And  the  crying  wind  and  the  lonesome  hush ! 
164 


Padraic  Colum 

And  I  am  praying  to  God  on  high, 
And  I  am  praying  Him  night  and  day, 
For  a  little  house — a  house  of  my  own — 
Out  of  the  wind's  and  the  rain's  way. 


Joseph  Campbell 
(Seosamh  MacCathmhaoil) 

Joseph  Campbell  was  born  in  Belfast  in  1881,  and  is  not 
only  a  poet  but  an  artist;  he  made  all  the  illustrations  for  The 
Rushlight  (1906),  a  volume  of  his  own  poems.  Writing  under 
the  Gaelic  form  of  his  name,  he  has  published  half  a  dozen 
books  of  verse,  the  most  striking  of  which  is  The  Mountainy 
Singer,  first  published  in  Dublin  in  1909. 

I  AM  THE  MOUNTAINY  SINGER 

I  am  the  mountainy  singer — 
The  voice  of  the  peasant's  dream, 
The  cry  of  the  wind  on  the  wooded  hill, 
The  leap  of  the  fish  in  the  stream. 

Quiet  and  love  I  sing — 
The  earn  on  the  mountain  crest 
The  catlin  in  her  lover's  arms, 
The  child  at  its  mother's  breast. 

Beauty  and  peace  I  sing— 
The  fire  on  the  open  hearth, 
The  callleach  spinning  at  her  wheel, 
The  plough  in  the  broken  earth. 

165 


Joseph   Campbell 

Travail  and  pain  I  sing — 
The  bride  on  the  childing  bed, 
The  dark  man  laboring  at  his  rhymes, 
The  eye  in  the  lambing  shed. 

Sorrow  and  death  I  sing — 
The  canker  come  on  the  corn, 
The  fisher  lost  in  the  mountain  loch, 
The  cry  at  the  mouth  of  morn. 

No  other  life  I  sing, 

For  I  am  sprung  of  the  stock 

That  broke  the  hilly  land  for  bread, 

And  built  the  nest  in  the  rock! 


THE  OLD  WOMAN 

As  a  white  candle 

In  a  holy  place, 
So  is  the  beauty 

Of  an  aged  face. 

As  the  spent  radiance 
Of  the  winter  sun, 

So  is  a  woman 

With  her  travail  done, 

Her  brood  gone  from  her, 
And  her  thoughts  as  still 

As  the  waters 

Under  a  ruined  mill. 
1 66 


James  Stephens 

This  unique  personality  was  born  in  Dublin  in  February, 
1882.  Stephens  was  discovered  in  an  office  and  saved  from 
clerical  slavery  by  George  Russell  ("A.  E.").  Always  a  poet, 
Stephens's  most  poetic  moments  are  in  his  highly-colored  prose. 
And  yet,  although  the  finest  of  his  novels,  The  Crock  of  Gold 
(1912),  contains  more  wild  phantasy  and  quaint  imagery  than 
all  his  volumes  of  verse,  his  Insurrections  (1909)  and  The  Hill 
of  Vision  (1912)  reveal  a  rebellious  spirit  that  is  at  once  hotly 
ironic  and  coolly  whimsical. 

Stephens's  outstanding  characteristic  is  his  delightful  blend  of 
incongruities — he  combines  in  his  verse  the  grotesque,  the 
buoyant  and  the  profound.  No  fresher  or  more  brightly  vigor- 
ous imagination  has  come  out  of  Ireland  since  J.  M.  Synge. 


THE  SHELL 

And  then  I  pressed  the  shell 

Close  to  my  ear 

And  listened  well, 

And  straightway  like  a  bell 

Came  low  and  clear 

The  slow,  sad  murmur  of  the  distant  seas, 

Whipped  by  an  icy  breeze 

Upon  a  shore 

Wind-swept  and  desolate. 

It  was  a  sunless  strand  that  never  bore 

The  footprint  of  a  man, 

Nor  felt  the  weight 

Since  time  began 

Of  any  human  quality  or  stir 

Save  what  the  dreary  winds  and  waves  incur. 

And  in  the  hush  of  waters  was  the  sound 

Of  pebbles  rolling  round, 

For  ever  rolling  with  a  hollow  sound. 

167 


James  Stephens 

And  bubbling  sea-weeds  as  the  waters  go 

Swish  to  and  fro 

Their  long,  cold  tentacles  of  slimy  grey. 

There  was  no  day, 

Nor  ever  came  a  night 

Setting  the  stars  alight 

To  wonder  at  the  moon: 

Was  twilight  only  and  the  frightened  croon, 

Smitten  to  whimpers,  of  the  dreary  wind 

And  waves  that  journeyed  blind — 

And  then  I  loosed  my  ear   .    .    .   O,  it  was  sweet 

To  hear  a  cart  go  jolting  down  the  street. 


WHAT  TOMAS  AN  BUILE  SAID  IN  A  PUB 

I  saw  God.     Do  you  doubt  it? 

Do  you  dare  to  doubt  it? 
I  saw  the  Almighty  Man.     His  hand 
Was  resting  on  a  mountain,  and 
He  looked  upon  the  World  and  all  about  it: 
I  saw  him  plainer  than  you  see  me  now, 

You  mustn't  doubt  it. 

He  was  not  satisfied; 

His  look  was  all  dissatisfied. 
His  beard  swung  on  a  wind  far  out  of  sight 
Behind  the  world's  curve,  and  there  was  light 
Most  fearful  from  His  forehead,  and  He  sighed, 
"  That  star  went  always  wrong,  and  from  the  start 

I  was  dissatisfied." 

168 


James  Stephens 

He  lifted  up  His  hand — 

I  say  He  heaved  a  dreadful  hand 
Over  the  spinning  Earth.     Then  I  said,  "  Stay, 
You  must  not  strike  it,  God;  I'm  in  the  way; 
And  I  will  never  move  from  where  I  stand." 
He  said,  "  Dear  child,  I  feared  that  you  were  dead," 

And  stayed  His  hand. 


TO  THE  FOUR  COURTS,  PLEASE 

The  driver  rubbed  at  his  nettly  chin 

With  a  huge,  loose  forefinger,  crooked  and  black, 

And  his  wobbly,  violet  lips  sucked  in, 

And  purled  out  again  and  hung  down  slack: 

One  fang  shone  through  his  lop-sided  smile, 

In  his  little  pouched  eye  flickered  years  of  guile. 

And  the  horse,  poor  beast,  it  was  ribbed  and  forked, 
And  its  ears  hung  down,  and  its  eyes  were  old, 
And  its  knees  were  knuckly,  and  as  we  talked 
It  swung  the  stiff  neck  that  could  scarcely  hold 
Its  big,  skinny  head  up — then  I  stepped  in, 
And  the  driver  climbed  to  his  seat  with  a  grin. 

God  help  the  horse  and  the  driver  too, 
And  the  people  and  beasts  who  have  never  a  friend, 
For  the  driver  easily  might  have  been  you, 
And  the  horse  be  me  by  a  different  end. 
And  nobody  knows  how  their  days  will  cease, 
And  the  poor,  when  they're  old,  have  little  of  peace. 
169 


John  Drinkwater 

Primarily  a  poetic  dramatist,  John  Drinkwater,  born  in  1882, 
is  best  known  as  the  author  of  Abraham  Lincoln — A  Play 
(1919)  founded  on  Lord  Charnwood's  masterly  and  analytical 
biography.  Pie  has  published  several  volumes  of  poems,  most 
of  them  meditative  and  elegiac  in  mood. 

The  best  of  his  verses  have  been  collected  in  Poems,  1908- 
19,  and  the  two  here  reprinted  are  used  by  permission,  and 
by  special  arrangement  with  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  the 
authorized  publishers. 


RECIPROCITY 

I  do  not  think  that  skies  and  meadows  are 
Moral,  or  that  the  fixture  of  a  star 
Comes  of  a  quiet  spirit,  or  that  trees 
Have  wisdom  in  their  windless  silences. 
Yet  these  are  things  invested  in  my  mood 
With  constancy,  and  peace,  and  fortitude; 
That  in  my  troubled  season  I  can  cry 
Upon  the  wide  composure  of  the  sky, 
And  envy  fields,  and  wish  that  I  might  be 
As  little  daunted  as  a  star  or  tree. 


A  TOWN  WINDOW 

Beyond  my  window  in  the  night 
Is  but  a  drab  inglorious  street, 

Yet  there  the  frost  and  clean  starlight 
As  over  Warwick  woods  are  sweet. 
170 


John  Drinkwater 

Under  the  grey  drift  of  the  town 
The  crocus  works  among  the  mould 

As  eagerly  as  those  that  crown 

The  Warwick  spring  in  flame  and  gold. 

And  when  the  tramway  down  the  hill 
Across  the  cobbles  moans  and  rings, 

There  is  about  my  window-sill 
The  tumult  of  a  thousand  wings. 


James  Joyce 

James  Joyce  was  born  at  Dublin,  February  2,  1882,  and  edu- 
cated in  Ireland.  He  is  best  known  as  a  highly  sensitive  and 
strikingly  original  writer  of  prose,  his  most  celebrated  works 
being  Dubliners  (1914)  and  the  novel,  A  Portrait  of  the  Artist 
as  a  Young  Man  (1916).  His  one  volume  of  verse,  Chamber 
Music,  was  published  in  this  country  in  1918. 


I  HEAR  AN  ARMY 

I  hear  an  army  charging  upon  the  land, 

And  the  thunder  of  horses  plunging,  foam  about  their 

knees : 
Arrogant,  in  black  armour,  behind  them  stand, 

Disdaining    the    reins,     with    fluttering    whips,     the 
charioteers. 

They  cry  unto  the  night  their  battle-name : 

I   moan    in   sleep   when    I    hear   afar   their  whirling 

laughter. 
They  cleave  the  gloom  of  dreams,  a  blinding  flame, 

Clanging,  clanging  upon  the  heart  as  upon  an 


James  Joyce 

They  come  shaking  in  triumph  their  long,  green  hair: 
They  come  out  of  the  sea  and  run  shouting  by  the  shore. 

My  heart,  have  you  no  wisdom  thus  to  despair? 

My  love,  my  love,  my  love,  why  have  you  left  me  alone  ? 

J.   C.  Squire 

Jack  Collings  Squire  was  born  April  2,  1884,  at  Plymouth,  of 
Devonian  ancestry.  He  was  educated  at  Blundell's  and  Cam- 
bridge University,  and  became  known  first  as  a  remarkably 
adroit  parodist.  His  Imaginary  Speeches  (1912)  and  Tricks 
of  the  Trade  (1917)  are  amusing  parodies  and,  what  is  more, 
excellent  criticism.  He  edited  The  New  Statesman  for  a  while 
and  founded  The  London  Mercury  (a  monthly  of  which  he  is 
editor)  in  November,  1919.  Under  the  pseudonym  "Solomon 
Eagle"  he  wrote  a  page  of  literary  criticism  every  week  for 
six  years,  many  of  these  papers  being  collected  in  his  volume, 
Books  in  General  (1919). 

His  original  poetry  is  intellectual  bu-t  simple,  sometimes 
metaphysical  and  always  interesting  technically  in  its  fluent  and 
variable  rhythms.  A  collection  of  his  best  verse  up  to  1919 
was  published  under  the  title,  Poems:  First  Series. 

A  HOUSE 

Now  very  quietly,  and  rather  mournfully, 

In  clouds  of  hyacinth  the  sun  retires, 
And  all  the  stubble-fields  that  were  so  warm  to  him 

Keep  but  in  memory  their  borrowed  fires. 

And  I,  the  traveller,  break,  still  unsatisfied, 
From  that  faint  exquisite  celestial  strand, 

And  turn  and  see  again  the  only  dwelling-place 
In  this  wide  wilderness  of  darkening  land. 

172 


/.   C.  Squire 

The  house,  that  house,  O  now  what  change  has  come 
to  it. 

Its  crude  red-brick  fagade,  its  roof  of  slate; 
What  imperceptible  swift  hand  has  given  it 

A  new,  a  wonderful,  a  queenly  state? 

No  hand  has  altered  it,  that  parallelogram, 

So  inharmonious,  so  ill-arranged; 
That  hard  blue  roof  in  shape  and  colour's  what  it 
was; 

No,  it  is  not  that  any  line  has  changed. 

Only  that  loneliness  is  now  accentuate 

And,  as  the  dusk  unveils  the  heaven's  deep  cave, 

This  small  world's  feebleness  fills  me  with  awe  again, 
And  all  man's  energies  seem  very  brave. 

And  this  mean  edifice,  which  some  dull  architect 
Built  for  an  ignorant  earth-turning  hind, 

Takes  on  the  quality  of  that  magnificent 
Unshakable  dauntlessness  of  human  kind. 

Darkness  and  stars  will  come,  and  long  the  night 
will  be, 

Yet  imperturbable  that  house  will  rest, 
Avoiding  gallantly  the  stars'  chill  scrutiny, 

Ignoring  secrets  in  the  midnight's  breast. 

Thunders  may  shudder  it,  and  winds  demoniac 
May  howl  their  menaces,  and  hail  descend: 

Yet  it  will  bear  with  them,  serenely,  steadfastly, 
Not  even  scornfully,  and  wait  the  end. 
173 


/.   C.  Squire 

And  all  a  universe  of  nameless  messengers 
From  unknown  distances  may  whisper  fear, 

And  it  will  imitate  immortal  permanence, 
And  stare  and  stare  ahead  and  scarcely  hear. 

It  stood  there  yesterday;  it  will  to-morrow,  too, 
When  there  is  none  to  watch,  no  alien  eyes 

To  watch  its  ugliness  assume  a  majesty 
From  this  great  solitude  of  evening  skies. 

So  lone,  so  very  small,  with  worlds  and  worlds  around, 
While  life  remains  to  it  prepared  to  outface 

Whatever  awful  unconjectured  mysteries 

May  hide  and  wait  for  it  in  time  and  space. 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

LascelleG  Abercrombie  was  born  in  1884.  Like  Masefield,  he 
gained  his  reputation  rapidly;  totally  unknown  until  1909,  upon 
the  publication  of  Interludes  and  Poems,  he  was  recognized  as 
one  of  the  greatest  metaphysical  poets  of  his  period.  Emblems 
of  Love  (1912),  the  ripest  collection  of  his  blank  verse  dia- 
logues, justified  the  enthusiasm  of  his  admirers. 

Many  of  Abercrombie's  poems,  the  best  of  which  are  too  long 
to  quote,  are  founded  on  scriptural  themes,  but  his  blank  verse 
is  not  biblical  either  in  mood  or  manner.  It  is  the  undercur- 
rent rather  than  the  surface  of  his  verse  which  moves  with  a 
strong  religious  conviction.  Abercrombie's  images  are  daring 
and  brilliant;  his  lines,  sometimes  too  closely  packed,  glow 
with  a  dazzling  intensity  that  is  warmly  spiritual  and  fervently 
human. 


124. 


Lascelles  Abercromble 


FROM  "  VASHTI " 

What  thing  shall  be  held  up  to  woman's  beauty? 
Where  are  the  bounds  of  it?    Yea,  what  is  all 
The  world,  but  an  awning  scaffolded  amid 
The  waste  perilous  Eternity,  to  lodge 
This  Heaven-wander'd  princess,  woman's  beauty? 
The    East    and   West   kneel   down   to   thee,    the 

North 

And  South;  and  all  for  thee  their  shoulders  bear 
The  load  of  fourfold  space.    As  yellow  morn 
Runs  on  the  slippery  waves  of  the  spread  sea, 
Thy  feet  are  on  the  griefs  and  joys  of  men 
That  sheen  to  be  thy  causey.     Out  of  tears 
Indeed,  and  blitheness,  murder  and  lust  and  love, 
Whatever  has  been  passionate  in  clay, 
Thy  flesh  was  tempered.     Behold  in  thy  body 
The  yearnings  of  all  men  measured  and  told, 
Insatiate  endless  agonies  of  desire 
Given  thy  flesh,  the  meaning  of  thy  shape ! 
What  beauty  is  there,  but  thou  makest  it? 
How  is  earth  good  to  look  on,  woods  and  fields, 
The  season's  garden,  and  the  courageous  hills, 
All  this  green  raft  of  earth  moored  in  the  seas? 
The  manner  of  the  sun  to  ride  the  air, 
The  stars  God  has  imagined  for  the  night? 
What's  this  behind  them,  that  we  cannot  near, 
Secret  still  on  the  point  of  being  blabbed, 
175 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

The  ghost  in  the  world  that  flies  from  being  named  ? 
Where  do  they  get  their  beauty  from,  all  these? 
They  do  but  glaze  a  lantern  lit  for  man, 
And  woman's  beauty  is  the  flame  therein. 


SONG 

(From  "Judith") 

Balkis  was  in  her  marble  town, 
And  shadow  over  the  wrorld  came  down. 
Whiteness  of  walls,  towers  and  piers, 
That  all  day  dazzled  eyes  to  tears, 
Turned  from  being  white-golden  flame, 
And  like  the  deep-sea  blue  became. 
Balkis  into  her  garden  went ; 
Her  spirit  was  in  discontent 
Like  a  torch  in  restless  air. 
Joylessly  she  wandered  there, 
And  saw  her  city's  azure  white 
Lying  under  the  great  night, 
Beautiful  as  the  memory 
Of  a  worshipping  world  would  be 
In  the  mind  of  a  god,  in  the  hour 
When  he  must  kill  his  outward  power; 
And,  coming  to  a  pool  where  trees 
Grew  in  double  greeneries, 
Saw  herself,  as  she  went  by 
The  water,  walking  beautifully, 

176 


Lascelles  Abercrombie 

And  saw  the  stars  shine  in  the  glance 

Of  her  eyes,  and  her  own  fair  countenance 

Passing,  pale  and  wonderful, 

Across  the  night  that  filled  the  pool. 

And  cruel  was  the  grief  that  played 

With  the  queen's  spirit;  and  she  said: 

"  What  do  I  here,  reigning  alone? 

For  to  be  unloved  is  to  be  alone. 

There  is  no  man  in  all  my  land 

Dare  my  longing  understand; 

The  whole  folk  like  a  peasant  bows 

Lest  its  look  should  meet  my  brows 

And  be  harmed  by  this  beauty  of  mine. 

I  burn  their  brains  as  I  were  sign 

Of  God's  beautiful  anger  sent 

To  master  them  with  punishment 

Of  beauty  that  must  pour  distress 

On  hearts  grown  dark  with  ugliness. 

But  it  is  I  am  the  punisht  one. 

Is  there  no  man,  is  there  none, 

In  whom  my  beauty  wrill  but  move 

The  lust  of  a  delighted  love; 

In  whom  some  spirit  of  God  so  thrives 

That  we  may  wed  our  lonely  lives. 

Is  there  no  man,  is  there  none?  " — 

She  said,  "  I  will  go  to  Solomon." 


177 


James  Elroy  Flecker 

Another  remarkable  poet  whose  early  death  was  a  blow  to 
English  literature,  James  Elroy  Flecker,  was  born  in  London, 
November  5,  1884.  Possibly  due  to  his  low  vitality,  Flecker 
found  little  to  interest  him  but  a  classical  reaction  against 
realism  in  verse,  a  delight  in  verbal  craftsmanship,  and  a  pas- 
sion for  technical  perfection — especially  the  deliberate  technique 
of  the  French  Parnassians  whom  he  worshipped.  Flecker  was 
opposed  to  any  art  that  was  emotional  or  that  "taught"  any- 
thing. "  The  poet's  business,"  he  declared,  u  is  not  to  save  the 
soul  of  man,  but  to  make  it  worth  saving." 

The  advent  of  the  war  began  to  make  Flecker's  verse  more 
personal  and  romantic.  The  tuberculosis  that  finally  killed 
him  at  Davos  Platz,  Switzerland,  January  3,  1915,  forced  him 
from  an  Olympian  disinterest  to  a  deep  concern  with  life  and 
death.  He  passionately  denied  that  he  was  weary  of  living 
"  as  the  pallid  poets  are,"  and  he  was  attempting  higher  flights 
of  song  when  his  singing  ceased  altogether. 

His  two  colorful  volumes  are  The  Golden  Journey  to 
Samarkand  (1913)  and  The  Old  Ships  (1915). 


THE  OLD  SHIPS 

I  have  seen  old  ships  sail  like  swans  asleep 
Beyond  the  village  which  men  still  call  Tyre, 
With  leaden  age  o'ercargoed,  dipping  deep 
For  Famagusta  and  the  hidden  sun 
That  rings  black  Cyprus  with  a  lake  of  fire; 
And  all  those  ships  were  certainly  so  old — 
Who  knows  how  oft  with  squat  and  noisy  gun, 
Questing  brown  slaves  or  Syrian  oranges, 
The  pirate  Genoese 
Hell-raked  them  till  they  rolled 
178 


James  Elroy  Flecker 

Blood,  water,  fruit  and  corpses  up  the  hold. 
But  now  through  friendly  seas  they  softly  run, 
Painted  the  mid-sea  blue  or  shore-sea  green, 
Still  patterned  with  the  vine  and  grapes  in  gold. 

But  I  have  seen, 

Pointing  her  shapely  shadows  from  the  dawn 

And  image  tumbled  on  a  rose-swept  bay, 

A  drowsy  ship  of  some  yet  older  day ; 

And,  wonder's  breath  indrawn, 

Thought  I — who  knows — who  knows — but  in  that 

same 

(Fished  up  beyond  Aeaea,  patched  up  new 
— Stern  painted  brighter  blue — ) 
That  talkative,  bald-headed  seaman  came 
(Twelve  patient  comrades  sweating  at  the  oar) 
From  Troy's  doom-crimson  shore, 
And  with  great  lies  about  his  wooden  horse 
Set  the  crew  laughing,  and  forgot  his  course. 

It  was  so  old  a  ship — who  knows,  who  knows? 
— And  yet  so  beautiful,  I  watched  in  vain 
To  see  the  mast  burst  open  with  a  rose, 
And  the  whole  deck  put  on  its  leaves  again. 


D.  H.  Lawrence 

David  Herbert  Lawrence,  born  in  1885,  is  one  of  the  most 
psychologically  intense  of  the  modern  poets.  This  intensity, 
ranging  from  a  febrile  morbidity  to  an  exalted  and  almost 
frenzied  mysticism,  is  seen  even  in  his  prose  works — particu- 
larly in  his  short  stories,  The  Prussian  Officer  (1917),  his 

179 


D.  H.  Lawrence 

analytical  Sons  and  Lovers    (1913),   and   the  rhapsodic  novel, 
The  Rainbow  (1915). 

As  a  poet  he  is  often  caught  in  the  net  of  his  own  emotions; 
his  passion  thickens  his  utterance  and  distorts  his  rhythms, 
which  sometimes  seem  purposely  harsh  and  bitter-flavored.  But 
within  his  range  he  is  as  powerful  as  he  is  poignant.  His  most 
notable  volumes  of  poetry  are  A  mores  (1916),  Look!  We  Have 
Come  Through!  (1918),  and  New  Poems  (1920). 

PEOPLE 

The  great  gold  apples  of  light 
Hang  from  the  street's  long  bough 

Dripping  their  light 
On  the  faces  that  drift  below, 
On  the  faces  that  drift  and  blow 
Down  the  night-time,  out  of  sight 

In  the  wind's  sad  sough. 

The  ripeness  of  these  apples  of  night 
Distilling  over  me 

Makes  sickening  the  white 
Ghost-flux  of  faces  that  hie 
Them  endlessly,  endlessly  by 
Without  meaning  or  reason  why 

They  ever  should  be. 

PIANO 

Softly,  in  the  dusk,  a  woman  is  singing  to  me; 
Taking  me  back  down  the  vista  of  years,  till  I  see 
A  child  sitting  under  the  piano,  in  the  boom  of  the 

tingling  strings 
And  pressing  the  small,  poised  feet  of  a  mother  who 

smiles  as  she  sings. 

180 


D.  H.  Lawrence 

In  spite  of  myself,  the  insidious  mastery  of  song 
Betrays  me  back,  till  the  heart  of  me  weeps  to  belong 
To  the  old  Sunday  evenings  at  home,  with  winter 

outside 
And  hymns  in  the  cosy  parlour,  the  tinkling  piano 

our  guide. 

So  now  it  is  vain  for  the  singer  to  burst  into  clamour 
With  the  great  black  piano  appassionato.    The  glamour 
Of  childish  days  is  upon  me,  my  manhood  is  cast 
Down  in  the  flood  of  remembrance,  I  weep  like  a  child 
for  the  past. 


John  Freeman 

John  Freeman,  born  in  1885,  has  published  several  volumes 
of  pleasantly  descriptive  verse.  The  two  most  distinctive  are 
Stone  Trees  (1916)  and  Memories  of  Childhood  (1919). 


STONE  TREES 

Last  night  a  sword-light  in  the  sky 
Flashed  a  swift  terror  on  the  dark. 
In  that  sharp  light  the  fields  did  lie 
Naked  and  stone-like;  each  tree  stood 
Like  a  tranced  woman,  bound  and  stark. 

Far  off  the  wood 

With  darkness  ridged  the  riven  dark. 
181 


John  Freeman 

And  cows  astonished  stared  with  fear, 
And  sheep  crept  to  the  knees  of  cows, 
And  conies  to  their  burrows  slid, 
And  rooks  were  still  in  rigid  boughs, 
And  all  things  else  were  still  or  hid. 

From  all  the  wood 
Came  but  the  owl's  hoot,  ghostly,  clear. 

In  that  cold  trance  the  earth  was  held 
It  seemed  an  age,  or  time  was  nought. 
Sure  never  from  that  stone-like  field 
Sprang  golden  corn,  nor  from  those  chill 
Grey  granite  trees  was  music  wrought. 

In  all  the  wood 
Even  the  tall  poplar  hung  stone  still. 

It  seemed  an  age,  or  time  was  none  .    .    . 
Slowly  the  earth  heaved  out  of  sleep 
And  shivered,  and  the  trees  of  stone 
Bent  and  sighed  in  the  gusty  wind, 
And  rain  swept  as  birds  flocking  sweep. 

Far  off  the  wood 
Rolled  the  slow  thunders  on  the  wind. 

From  all  the  wood  came  no  brave  bird, 

No  song  broke  through  the  close-fallen  night, 

Nor  any  sound  from  cowering  herd: 

Only  a  dog's  long  lonely  howl 

When  from  the  window  poured  pale  light. 

And  from  the  wood 
The  hoot  came  ghostly  of  the  owl. 
182 


Shane  Leslie 

Shane  Leslie,  the  only  surviving  son  of  Sir  John  Leslie,  was 
born  at  Swan  Park,  Monaghan,  Ireland,  in  1886  and  was  edu- 
cated at  Eton  and  the  University  of  Paris.  He  worked  for  a 
time  among  the  Irish  poor  and  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
Celtic  revival.  During  the  greater  part  of  a  year  he  lectured 
in  the  United  States,  marrying  an  American,  Marjorie  Ide. 

Leslie  has  been  editor  of  The  Dublin  Review  since  1916.  He 
is  the  author  of  several  volumes  on  Irish  political  matters  as 
well  as  The  End  of  a  Chapter  and  Verses  in  Peace  and  War. 


FLEET  STREET 

I  never  see  the  newsboys  run 
Amid  the  whirling  street, 
With  swift  untiring  feet, 

To  cry  the  latest  venture  done, 

But  I  expect  one  day  to  hear 
Them  cry  the  crack  of  doom 
And  risings  from  the  tomb, 

With  great  Archangel  Michael  near; 

And  see  them  running  from  the  Fleet 
As  messengers  of  God, 
With  Heaven's  tidings  shod 

About  their  brave  unwearied  feet. 


THE  PATER  OF  THE  CANNON 

Father  of  the  thunder, 

Flinger  of  the  flame, 
Searing  stars  asunder, 

Hallowed  be  Thy  Name! 

183 


Shane  Leslie 

By  the  sweet-sung  quiring 

Sister  bullets  hum, 
By  our  fiercest  firing, 

May  Thy  Kingdom  come! 

By  Thy  strong  apostle 

Of  the  Maxim  gun, 
By  his  pentecostal 

Flame,  Thy  Will  be  done! 

Give  us,  Lord,  good  feeding 
To  Thy  battles  sped — 

Flesh,  white  grained  and  bleeding, 
Give  for  daily  bread! 


Frances  Cornford 

The  daughter  of  Francis  Darwin,  third  son  of  Charles  Dar- 
win, Mrs.  Frances  Macdonald  Cornford,  whose  husband  is  a 
Fellow  and  Lecturer  of  Trinity  College,  was  born  in  1886.  She 
has  published  three  volumes  of  unaffected  lyrical  verse,  the 
most  recent  of  which,  Spring  Morning,  was  brought  out  by 
The  Poetry  Bookshop  in  1915. 


PREEXISTENCE 

I  laid  me  down  upon  the  shore 
And  dreamed  a  little  space; 

I  heard  the  great  waves  break  and  roar; 
The  sun  was  on  my  face. 
184 


Frances  Cornford 

My  idle  hands  and  fingers  brown 
Played  with  the  pebbles  grey; 

The  waves  came  up,  the  waves  went  down, 
Most  thundering  and  gay. 

The  pebbles,  they  were  smooth  and  round 

And  warm  upon  my  hands, 
Like  little  people  I  had  found 

Sitting  among  the  sands. 

The  grains  of  sand  so  shining-small 

Soft  through  my  fingers  ran ; 
The  sun  shone  down  upon  it  all, 

And  so  my  dream  began: 

How  all  of  this  had  been  before, 

How  ages  far  away 
I  lay  on  some  forgotten  shore 

As  here  I  lie  to-day. 

The  waves  came  shining  up  the  sands, 

As  here  to-day  they  shine; 
And  in  my  pre-pelasgian  hands 

The  sand  was  warm  and  fine. 

I  have  forgotten  whence  I  came, 

Or  what  my  home  might  be, 
Or  by  what  strange  and  savage  name 

I  called  that  thundering  sea. 
185 


Frances  Cornford 

I  only  know  the  sun  shone  down 

As  still  it  shines  to-day, 
And  in  my  fingers  long  and  brown 

The  little  pebbles  lay. 


Anna  Wickham 

Anna  Wickham,  one  of  the  most  individual  of  the  younger 
women-poets,  has  published  two  distinctive  volumes,  The  Con- 
templative Quarry  (1915)  and  The  Man  with  a  Hammer 
(1916). 


THE  SINGER 

If  I  had  peace  to  sit  and  sing, 
Then  I  could  make  a  lovely  thing; 
But  I  am  stung  with  goads  and  whips, 
So  I  build  songs  like  iron  ships. 

Let  it  be  something  for  my  song, 
If  it  is  sometimes  swift  and  strong. 

REALITY 

Only  a  starveling  singer  seeks 

The  stuff  of  songs  among  the  Greeks. 

Juno  is  old, 

Jove's  loves  are  cold ; 

Tales  over-told. 

186 


Anna  Wickham 

By  a  new  risen  Attic  stream 

A  mortal  singer  dreamed  a  dream. 

Fixed  he  not  Fancy's  habitation, 

Nor  set  in  bonds  Imagination. 

There  are  new  waters,  and  a  new  Humanity. 

For  all  old  myths  give  us  the  dream  to  be. 

We  are  outwearied  with  Persephone; 

Rather  than  her,  well  sing  Reality. 


SONG 

I  was  so  chill,  and  overworn,  and  sad, 
To  be  a  lady  was  the  only  joy  I  had. 
I  walked  the  street  as  silent  as  a  mouse, 
Buying  fine  clothes,  and  fittings  for  the  house. 

But  since  I  saw  my  love 
I  wear  a  simple  dress, 
And  happily  I  move 
Forgetting  weariness. 


Siegfried  Sassoon 

Siegfried  Loraine  Sassoon,  the  poet  whom  Masefield  hailed 
as  "one  of  England's  most  brilliant  rising  stars,"  was  born 
September  8,  1886.  He  was  educated  at  Marlborough  and 
Clare  College,  Cambridge,  and  was  a  captain  in  the  Royal 
Welsh  Fusiliers.  He  fought  three  times  in  France,  once  in 
Palestine,  winning  the  Military  Cross  for  bringing  in  wounded 
on  the  battlefield. 

187 


Siegfried  Sassoon 

His  poetry  divides  itself  sharply  in  two  moods — the  lyric 
and  the  ironic.  His  early  lilting  poems  were  without  signifi- 
cance or  individuality.  But  with  The  Old  Huntsman  (1917) 
Sassoon  found  his  own  idiom,  and  became  one  of  the  leading 
younger  poets  upon  the  appearance  of  this  striking  volume. 
The  first  poem,  a  long  monologue  evidently  inspired  by  Mase- 
field,  gave  little  evidence  of  what  was  to  come.  Immediately 
following  it,  however,  came  a  series  of  war  poems,  undis- 
guised in  their  tragedy  and  bitterness.  Every  line  of  these 
quivering  stanzas  bore  the  mark  of  a  sensitive  and  outraged 
nature;  there  was  scarcely  a  phrase  that  did  not  protest  against 
the  "glorification"  and  false  glamour  of  war. 

Counter-Attack  appeared  in  1918.  In  this  volume  Sassoon 
turned  entirely  from  an  ordered  loveliness  to  the  gigantic  bru- 
tality of  war.  At  heart  a  lyric  idealist,  the  bloody  years  intensi- 
fied and  twisted  his  tenderness  till  what  was  stubborn  and 
satiric  in  him  forced  its  way  to  the  top.  In  Counter-Attack 
Sassoon  found  his  angry  outlet.  Most  of  these  poems  are 
choked  with  passion;  many  of  them  are  torn  out,  roots  and  all, 
from  the  very  core  of  an  intense  conviction;  they  rush  on,  not 
so  much  because  of  the  poet's  art  but  almost  in  spite  of  it.  A 
suave  utterance,  a  neatly-joined  structure  would  be  out  of 
place  and  even  inexcusable  in  poems  like  "  The  Rear-Guard," 
"To  Any  Dead  Officer,"  "Does  It  Matter?" — verses  that  are 
composed  of  love,  fever  and  indignation. 

Can  Sassoon  see  nothing  glorious  or  uplifting  in  war?  His 
friend,  Robert  Nichols,  another  poet  and  soldier,  speaks  for  him 
in  a  preface.  "  Let  no  one  ever."  Nichols  quotes  Sassoon  as 
saying,  "  from  henceforth  say  one  word  in  any  way  countenanc- 
ing war.  It  is  dangerous  even  to  speak  of  how  here  and  there 
the  individual  may  gain  some  hardship  of  soul  by  it.  For  war 
is  hell,  and  those  who  institute  it  are  criminals.  Were  there 
even  anything  to  say  for  it,  it  should  not  be  said ;  for  its 
spiritual  disasters  far  outweigh  any  of  its  advantages.  ..." 
Nichols  adds  his  approval  to  these  sentences,  saying,  "  For 
myself,  this  is  the  truth.  War  does  not  ennoble>  it  degrades." 

Early  in  1920  Sassoon  visited  America.  At  the  same  time 
he  brought  out  his  Picture  Show  (1920),  a  vigorous  answer  to 
those  who  feared  that  Sassoon  had  "written  himself  out"  or 
had  begun  to  burn  away  in  his  own  fire.  Had  Rupert  Brooke 

1 88 


Siegfried  Sassoon 

lived,  he  might  have  written  many  of  these  lacerated  but  some- 
how exalted  lines.  Sassoon's  three  volumes  are  the  most  vital 
and  unsparing  records  of  the  war  we  have  had.  They  syn- 
thesize in  poetry  what  Barbusse's  Under  Fire  spreads  out  in 
panoramic  prose. 

TO  VICTORY 

Return  to  greet  me,  colours  that  were  my  joy, 
Not  in  the  woeful  crimson  of  men  slain, 
But  shining  as  a  garden ;  come  with  the  streaming 
Banners  of  dawn  and  sundown  after  rain. 

I  want  to  fill  my  gaze  with  blue  and  silver, 
Radiance  through  living  roses,  spires  of  green, 
Rising  in  young-limbed  copse  and  lovely  wood, 
Where  the  hueless  wind  passes  and  cries  unseen. 

I  am  not  sad;  only  I  long  for  lustre, — 

Tired  of  the  greys  and  browns  and  leafless  ash. 

I  would  have  hours  that  move  like  a  glitter  of 

dancers, 
Far  from  the  angry  guns  that  boom  and  flash. 

Return,  musical,  gay  with  blossom  and  fleetness, 
Days  when  my  sight  shall  be  clear  and  my  heart 

rejoice ; 
Come  from  the  sea  with  breadth  of  approaching 

brightness, 

When  the  blithe  wind  laughs  on  the  hills  with 
uplifted  voice. 

189 


Siegfried  Sassoon 

DREAMERS 

Soldiers  are  citizens  of  death's  gray  land, 

Drawing  no  dividend  from  time's  to-morrows. 
In  the  great  hour  of  destiny  they  stand, 

Each  with  his  feuds,  and  jealousies,  and  sorrows. 
Soldiers  are  sworn  to  action ;  they  must  win 

Some  flaming,  fatal  climax  with  their  lives. 
Soldiers  are  dreamers ;  when  the  guns  begin 

They  think  of  firelit  homes,  clean  beds,  and  wives. 

I  see  them  in  foul  dug-outs,  gnawed  by  rats, 
And  in  the  ruined  trenches,  lashed  with  rain, 

Dreaming  of  things  they  did  with  balls  and  bats, 
And  mocked  by  hopeless  longing  to  regain 

Bank-holidays,  and  picture  shows,  and  spats, 
And  going  to  the  office  in  the  train. 


THE  REAR-GUARD 

Groping  along  the  tunnel,  step  by  step, 

He  winked  his  prying  torch  with  patching  glare 

From  side  to  side,  and  sniffed  the  unwholesome  air. 

Tins,  boxes,  bottles,  shapes  too  vague  to  know, 
A  mirror  smashed,  the  mattress  from  a  bed ; 
And  he,  exploring  fifty  feet  below 
The  rosy  gloom  of  battle  overhead. 
190 


Siegfried  Sassoon 

Tripping,  he  grabbed  the  wall;  saw  someone  lie 
Humped  at  his  feet,  half-hidden  by  a  rug, 
And  stooped  to  give  the  sleeper's  arm  a  tug. 
"  I'm  looking  for  headquarters."     No  reply. 
"God  blast  your  neck!"     (For  days  he'd  had  no 

sleep. ) 

"  Get  up  and  guide  me  through  this  stinking  place." 
Savage,  he  kicked  a  soft,  unanswering  heap, 
And  flashed  his  beam  across  the  livid  face 
Terribly  glaring  up,  whose  eyes  yet  wore 
Agony  dying  hard  ten  days  before ; 
And  fists  of  fingers  clutched  a  blackening  wound. 
Alone  he  staggered  on  until  he  found 
Dawn's  ghost  that  filtered  down  a  shafted  stair 
To  the  dazed,  muttering  creatures  underground 
Who  hear  the  boom  of  shells  in  muffled  sound. 
At  last,  with  sweat  of  horror  in  his  hair, 
He  climbed  through  darkness  to  the  twilight  air, 
Unloading  hell  behind  him  step  by  step. 


THRUSHES 

Tossed  on  the  glittering  air  they  soar  and  skim, 
Whose  voices  make  the  emptiness  of  light 
A  windy  palace.     Quavering  from  the  brim 
Of  dawn,  and  bold  with  song  at  edge  of  night, 
They  clutch  their  leafy  pinnacles  and  sing 
Scornful  of  man,  and  from  his  toils  aloof 
191 


Siegfried  Sassoon 

Whose  heart's  a  haunted  woodland  whispering; 
Whose  thoughts  return  on  tempest-baffled  wing; 
Who  hears  the  cry  of  God  in  everything, 
And  storms  the  gate  of  nothingness  for  proof. 


AFTERMATH 

Have  you  forgotten  yet?   .    .    . 

For   the   world's   events   have    rumbled   on    since    those 

gagged  days, 
Like    traffic    checked    a   while    at    the   crossing    of    city 

ways: 
And    the    haunted    gap    in    your   mind    has   filled    with 

thoughts  that  flow 
Like  clouds  in  the  lit  heavens  of  life;  and  you're  a  man 

reprieved  to  go, 
Taking    your    peaceful    share    of    Time,    with    joy    to 

spare. 
But    the   past   is  just   the    same, — and   Wars   a    bloody 

game.    .    .    . 

Have  you  forgotten  yet?   .    .    . 
Look  down,  and  swear  by  the  slain  of  the  War  that  you  II 

never  forget. 

Do  you  remember  the  dark  months  you  held  the  sector  at 

Mametz, — 
The  nights  you  watched  and  wired  and  dug  and  piled 

sandbags  on  parapets? 
192 


Siegfried  Sassoon 

Do  you  remember  the  rats;  and  the  stench 

Of  corpses  rotting  in  front  of  the  front-line  trench, — 

And  dawn  coming,  dirty-white,  and  chill  with  a  hopeless 

rain? 
Do  you  ever  stop  and  ask,  "  Is  it  all  going  to  happen 

again  ?  " 

Do  you  remember  that  hour  of  din  before  the  attack, — 
And  the  anger,  the  blind  compassion  that  seized  and  shook 

you  then 
As  you  peered  at  the  doomed  and  haggard  faces  of  your 

men? 

Do  you  remember  the  stretcher-cases  lurching  back 
With  dying  eyes  and  lolling  heads,  those  ashen-grey 
Masks  of  the  lads  who  once  were  keen  and  kind  and  gay  ? 

Have  you  forgotten  yet?   .    .    . 

Look  up,  and  swear  by  the  green  of  the  Spring  that  you'll 
never  forget. 

Rupert  Brooke 

Possibly  the  most  famous  of  the  Georgians,  Rupert  Brooke, 
was  born  at  Rugby  in  August,  1887,  his  father  being  assistant 
master  at  the  school.  As  a  youth,  Brooke  was  keenly  interested 
in  all  forms  of  athletics;  playing  cricket,  football,  tennis,  and 
swimming  as  well  as  most  professionals.  He  was  six  feet  tall, 
his  finely  molded  head  topped  with  a  crown  of  loose  hair  of 
lively  brown;  "a  golden  young  Apollo,"  said  Edward  Thomas. 
Another  friend  of  his  wrote,  "  to  look  at,  he  was  part  of  the 
youth  of  the  world.  He  was  one  of  the  handsomest  Englishmen 
of  his  time."  His  beauty  overstressed  somewhat  his  naturally 

193 


Rupert  Brooke 

romantic  disposition;  his  early  poems  are  a  blend  of  delight  in 
the  splendor  of  actuality  and  disillusion  in  a  loveliness  that 
dies.  The  shadow  of  John  Donne  lies  over  his  pages. 

This  occasional  cynicism  was  purged,  when  after  several 
years  of  travel  (he  had  been  to  Germany,  Italy  and  Honolulu) 
the  war  came,  turning  Brooke  away  from 

"A  world  grown  old  and  cold  and  weary  .    .    . 
And  half  men,  and  their  dirty  songs  and  dreary, 
And   all  the   little   emptiness  of   love." 

Brooke  enlisted  with  a  relief  that  was  like  a  rebirth;  he 
sought  a  new  energy  in  the  struggle  "  where  the  worst  friend 
and  enemy  is  but  Death."  After  seeing  service  in  Belgium, 
1914,  he  spent  the  following  winter  in  a  training-camp  in 
Dorsetshire  and  sailed  with  the  British  Mediterranean  Expedi- 
tionary Force  in  February,  1915,  to  take  part  in  the  unfortunate 
Dardenelles  Campaign. 

Brooke  never  reached  his  destination.  He  died  of  blood- 
poison  at  Skyros,  April  23,  1915.  His  early  death  was  one  of 
England's  great  literary  losses;  Lascelles  Abercrombie,  W.  W. 
Gibson  (with  both  of  whom  he  had  been  associated  on  the 
quarterly,  New  Numbers] ,  Walter  De  la  Mare,  the  Hon. 
Winston  Spencer  Churchill,  and  a  host  of  others  united  to  pay 
tribute  to  the  most  brilliant  and  passionate  of  the  younger  poets. 

Brooke's  sonnet-sequence,  1914  (from  which  "The  Soldier" 
is  taken),  which,  with  prophetic  irony,  appeared  a  few  weeks 
before  his  death,  contains  the  accents  of  immortality.  And 
"The  Old  Vicarage,  Grantchester "  (unfortunately  too  long 
to  reprint  in  this  volume),  is  fully  as  characteristic  of  the  lighter 
and  more  playful  side  of  Brooke's  temperament.  Both  these 
phases  are  combined  in  "The  Great  Lover,"  of  which  Aber- 
crombie has  written,  "  It  is  life  he  loves,  and  not  in  any  ab- 
stract sense,  but  all  the  infinite  little  familiar  details  of  life, 
remembered  and  catalogued  with  delightful  zest." 


194 


Rupert  Brooke 

THE  GREAT  LOVER1 

I  have  been  so  great  a  lover:  filled  my  days 

So  proudly  with  the  splendour  of  Love's  praise, 

The  pain,  the  calm,  and  the  astonishment, 

Desire  illimitable,  and  still  content, 

And  all  dear  names  men  use,  to  cheat  despair, 

For  the  perplexed  and  viewless  streams  that  bear 

Our  hearts  at  random  down  the  dark  of  life. 

Now,  ere  the  unthinking  silence  on  that  strife 

Steals  down,  I  would  cheat  drowsy  Death  so  far, 

My  night  shall  be  remembered  for  a  star 

That  outshone  all  the  suns  of  all  men's  days. 

Shall  I  not  crown  them  with  immortal  praise 

Whom  I  have  loved,  who  have  given  me,  dared  with  me 

High  secrets,  and  in  darkness  knelt  to  see 

The  inenarrable  godhead  of  delight? 

Love  is  a  flame; — we  have  beaconed  the  world's  night. 

A  city: — and  we  have  built  it,  these  and  I. 

An  emperor: — we  have  taught  the  world  to  die. 

So,  for  their  sakes  I  loved,  ere  I  go  hence, 

And  the  high  cause  of  Love's  magnificence, 

And  to  keep  loyalties  young,  I'll  write  those  names 

Golden  for  ever,  eagles,  crying  flames, 

And  set  them  as  a  banner,  that  men  may  know, 

To  dare  the  generations,  burn,  and  blow 

Out  on,  the  wind  of  Time,  shining  and  streaming.  .   .   . 

1From    The    Collected    Poems    of    Rupert    Brooke.      Copy- 
right, 1915,  by  John  Lane  Company  and  reprinted  by  permission. 

195 


Rupert  Brooke 

These  I  have  loved : 

White  plates  and  cups,  clean-gleaming, 
Ringed  with  blue  lines;  and  feathery,  faery  dust; 
Wet  roofs,  beneath  the  lamp-light;  the  strong  crust 
Of  friendly  bread;  and  many-tasting  food; 
Rainbows ;  and  the  blue  bitter  smoke  of  wood ; 
And  radiant  raindrops  couching  in  cool  flowers; 
And    flowers    themselves,     that    sway     through    sunny 

hours, 

Dreaming  of  moths  that  drink  them  under  the  moon ; 
Then,  the  cool  kindliness  of  sheets,  that  soon 
Smooth  away  trouble;  and  the  rough  male  kiss 
Of  blankets;  grainy  wood;  live  hair  that  is 
Shining  and  free;  blue-massing  clouds;  the  keen 
Unpassioned  beauty  of  a  great  machine; 
The  benison  of  hot  water;  furs  to  touch; 
The  good  smell  of  old  clothes ;  and  other  such — 
The  comfortable  smell  of  friendly  fingers, 
Hair's  fragrance,  and  the  musty  reek  that  lingers 
About  dead  leaves  and  last  year's  ferns.   .    .    . 

Dear  names, 

And  thousand  others  throng  to  me!    Royal  flames; 
Sweet  water's  dimpling  laugh  from  tap  or  spring; 
Holes  in  the  ground;  and  voices  that  do  sing: 
Voices  in  laughter,  too;  and  body's  pain, 
Soon  turned  to  peace;  and  the  deep-panting  train; 
Firm  sands;  the  little  dulling  edge  of  foam 
That  browns  and  dwindles  as  the  wave  goes  home; 
And  washen" stones,  gay  for  an  hour;  the  cold 
Graveness  of  iron;  moist  black  earthen  mould; 

196 


Rupert  Brooke 

Sleep;  and  high  places;  footprints  in  the  dew; 
And  oaks;  and  brown  horse-chestnuts,  glossy-new; 
And  new-peeled  sticks;  and  shining  pools  on  grass; — 
All  these  have  been  my  loves.    And  these  shall  pass. 
Whatever  passes  not,  in  the  great  hour, 
Nor  all  my  passion,  all  my  prayers,  have  power 
To  hold  them  with  me  through  the  gate  of  Death. 
They'll  play  deserter,  turn  with  the  traitor  breath, 
Break  the  high  bond  we  made,  and  sell  Love's  trust 
And  sacramented  covenant  to  the  dust. 
— Oh,  never  a  doubt  but,  somewhere,  I  shall  wake, 
And  give  what's  left  of  love  again,  and  make 
New  friends,  now  strangers.   .    .    . 

But  the  best  I've  known, 

Stays  here,  and  changes,  breaks,  grows  old,  is  blown 
About  the  winds  of  the  world,  and  fades  from  brains 
Of  living  men,  and  dies. 

Nothing  remains. 

O  dear  my  loves,  O  faithless,  once  again 

This  one  last  gift  I  give :  that  after  men 

Shall  know,  and  later  lovers,  far-removed 

Praise  you,  "All  these  were  lovely";  say,  "He  loved." 


197 


Rupert  Brooke 


DUST1 

When  the  white  flame  in  us  is  gone, 
And  we  that  lost  the  world's  delight 

Stiffen  in  darkness,  left  alone 

To  crumble  in  our  separate  night; 

When  your  swift  hair  is  quiet  in  death, 
And  through  the  lips  corruption  thrust 

Has  stilled  the  labour  of  my  breath — 
When  we  are  dust,  when  we  are  dust ! — 

Not  dead,  not  undesirous  yet, 

Still  sentient,  still  unsatisfied, 
We'll  ride  the  air,  and  shine  and  flit, 

Around  the  places  where  we  died, 

And  dance  as  dust  before  the  sun, 
And  light  of  foot,  and  unconfined, 

Hurry  from  road  to  road,  and  run 
About  the  errands  of  the  wind. 

And  every  mote,  on  earth  or  air, 

Will  speed  and  gleam,  down  later  days, 

And  like  a  secret  pilgrim  fare 
By  eager  and  invisible  ways, 

1  From  The  Collected  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke.     Copyright, 
1915,  by  John  Lane  Company  and  reprinted  by  permission. 

198 


Rupert  Brooke 

Nor  ever  rest,  nor  ever  lie, 

Till,  beyond  thinking,  out  of  view, 

One  mote  of  all  the  dust  that's  I 
Shall  meet  one  atom  that  was  you. 

Then  in  some  garden  hushed  from  wind, 
Warm  in  a  sunset's  afterglow, 

The  lovers  in  the  flowers  will  find 
A  sweet  and  strange  unquiet  grow 

Upon  the  peace;  and,  past  desiring, 

So  high  a  beauty  in  the  air, 
And  such  a  light,  and  such  a  quiring, 

And  such  a  radiant  ecstasy  there, 

They'll  know  not  if  it's  fire,  or  dew, 
Or  out  of  earth,  or  in  the  height, 

Singing,  or  flame,  or  scent,  or  hue, 
Or  two  that  pass,  in  light,  to  light, 

Out  of  the  garden  higher,  higher  .    .    . 

But  in  that  instant  they  shall  learn 
The  shattering  fury  of  our  fire, 

And  the  weak  passionless  hearts  will  burn 

And  faint  in  that  amazing  glow, 

Until  the  darkness  close  above; 
And  they  will  know — poor  fools,   they'll 

know ! — 

One  moment,  what  it  is  to  love. 
199 


Rupert  Brooke 

THE  SOLDIER1 

If  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me; 

That  there's  some  corner  of  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.    There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed ; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England 

given ; 

Her  sights  and  sounds;  dreams  happy  as  her  day; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness, 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 


Winifred  M.  Letts 

Winifred  M.  Letts  was  born  in  Ireland  in  1887,  and  her  early 
work  concerned  itself  almost  entirely  with  the  humor  and  pathos 
found  in  her  immediate  surroundings.  Her  Songs  from  Leinster 
(1913)  is  her  most  characteristic  collection;  a  volume  full  of 
the  poetry  of  simple  people  and  humble  souls.  Although  she  has 
called  herself  "  a  back-door  sort  of  bard,"  she  is  particularly 
effective  in  the  old  ballad  measure  and  in  her  quaint  portrayal 

1  From  The  Collected  Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke.  Copyright, 
I9I5>  by  John  Lane  Company  and  reprinted  by  permission. 

2OO 


Winifred  M.  Letts 

of  Irish  peasants  rather  than  of  Gaelic  kings  and  pagan  heroes. 
She  has  also  written  three  novels,  five  books  for  children,  a 
later  volume  of  Poems  of  the  War  and,  during  the  conflict, 
served  as  a  nurse  at  various  base  hospitals. 


GRANDEUR 

Poor  Mary  Byrne  is  dead, 
An'  all  the  world  may  see 

Where  she  lies  upon  her  bed 
Just  as  fine  as  quality. 

She  lies  there  still  and  white, 
With  candles  either  hand 

That'll  guard  her  through  the  night: 
Sure  she  never  was  so  grand. 

She  holds  her  rosary, 

Her  hands  clasped  on  her  breast. 
Just  as  dacint  as  can  be 

In  the  habit  she's  been  dressed. 

In  life  her  hands  were  red 

With  every  sort  of  toil, 
But  they're  white  now  she  is  dead, 

An'  they've  sorra  mark  of  soil. 

The  neighbours  come  and  go, 
They  kneel  to  say  a  prayer, 

I  wish  herself  could  know 
Of  the  way  she's  lyin'  there. 

2OI 


Winifred  M.  Letts 

It  was  work  from  morn  till  night, 
And  hard  she  earned  her  bread: 

But  I'm  thinking  she's  a  right 
To  be  aisy  now  she's  dead. 

When  other  girls  were  gay, 

At  wedding  or  at  fair, 
She'd  be  toiling  all  the  day, 

Not  a  minyit  could  she  spare. 

An*  no  one  missed  her  face, 

Or  sought  her  in  a  crowd, 
But  to-day  they  throng  the  place 

Just  to  see  her  in  her  shroud. 

The  creature  in  her  life 

Drew  trouble  with  each  breath; 

She  was  just  "  poor  Jim  Byrne's  wife  "- 
But  she's  lovely  in  her  death. 

I  wish  the  dead  could  see 

The  splendour  of  a  wake, 
For  it's  proud  herself  would  be 

Of  the  keening  that  they  make. 

Och!  little  Mary  Byrne, 

You  welcome  every  guest, 
Is  it  now  you  take  your  turn 

To  be  merry  with  the  rest? 
202 


Winifred  M.  Letts 

I'm  thinking  you'd  be  glad, 

Though  the  angels  make  your  bed, 
Could  you  see  the  care  we've  had 

To  respect  you — now  you're  dead. 


THE  SPIRES  OF  OXFORD 

I  saw  the  spires  of  Oxford 

As  I  was  passing  by, 
The  grey  spires  of  Oxford 

Against  the  pearl-grey  sky. 
My  heart  was  with  the  Oxford  men 

Who  went  abroad  to  die. 

The  years  go  fast  in  Oxford, 
The  golden  years  and  gay, 

The  hoary  Colleges  look  down 
On  careless  boys  at  play. 

But  when  the  bugles  sounded  war 
They  put  their  games  away. 

The  left  the  peaceful  river, 
The  cricket-field,  the  quad, 

The  shaven  lawns  of  Oxford, 
To  seek  a  bloody  sod — 

They  gave  their  merry  youth  away 
For  country  and  for  God, 
203 


Winifred  M.  Letts 

God  rest  you,  happy  gentlemen, 
Who  laid  your  good  lives  down, 

Who  took  the  khaki  and  the  gun 
Instead  of  cap  and  gown. 

God  bring  you  to  a  fairer  place 
Than  even  Oxford  town. 


Francis  Brett  Young 

Francis  Brett  Young,  who  is  a  novelist  as  well  as  a  poet, 
and  who  has  been  called,  by  The  Manchester  Guardian,  4<  one 
of  the  promising  evangelists  of  contemporary  poetry,"  has 
written  much  that  is  both  graceful  and  grave.  There  is  music 
and  a  message  in  his  lines  that  seem  to  have  as  their  motto: 
"  Trust  in  the  true  and  fiery  spirit  of  Man."  Best  known  as  a 
writer  of  prose,  his  most  prominent  works  are  Marching  on 
Tanga  and  The  Crescent  Moon. 

Brett  Young's  Five  Degrees  South  (1917)  and  his  Poems 
!Qi6-i8  (1919)  contain  the  best  of  his  verse. 


LOCHANILAUN 

This  is  the  image  of  my  last  content: 
My  soul  shall  be  a  little  lonely  lake, 
So  hidden  that  no  shadow  of  man  may  break 
The  folding  of  its  mountain  battlement; 
Only  the  beautiful  and  innocent 
Whiteness  of  sea-born  cloud  drooping  to  shake 
Cool  rain  upon  the  reed-beds,  or  the  wake 
Of  churned  cloud  in  a  howling  wind's  descent 
204 


Francis  Brett  Young 

For  there  shall  be  no  terror  in  the  night 
When  stars  that  I  have  loved  are  born  in  me, 
And  cloudy  darkness  I  will  hold  most  fair; 
But  this  shall  be  the  end  of  my  delight: — 
That  you,  my  lovely  one,  may  stoop  and  see 
Your  image  in  the  mirrored  beauty  there. 


F.  S.  Flint 

Known  chiefly  as  an  authority  on  modern  French  poetry, 
F.  S.  Flint  has  published  several  volumes  of  original  imagist 
poems,  besides  having  translated  works  of  Verhaeren  and 
Jean  de  Bosschere. 


LONDON 

London,  my  beautiful, 
it  is  not  the  sunset 
nor  the  pale  green  sky 
shimmering  through  the  curtain 
of  the  silver  birch, 
nor  the  quietness; 
it  is  not  the  hopping 
of  birds 

upon  the  lawn, 
nor  the  darkness 
stealing  over  all  things 
that  moves  me. 
205 


F.  S.  Flint 

But  as  the  moon  creeps  slowly 

over  the  tree-tops 

among  the  stars, 

I  think  of  her 

and  the  glow  her  passing 

sheds  on  men. 

London,  my  beautiful, 

I  will  climb 

into  the  branches 

to  the  moonlit  tree-tops, 

that  my  blood  may  be  cooled 

by  the  wind. 


Edith  Sitwell 

Edith  Sitwell  was  born  at  Scarborough,  in  Yorkshire,  and  is 
the  sister  of  the  poets,  Osbert  and  Sacheverell  Sitwell.  In 
1914  she  came  to  London  and  has  devoted  herself  to  literature 
ever  since,  having  edited  the  various  anthologies  of  Wheels 
since  1916.  Her  first  book,  The  Mother  and  Other  Poems 
(1915),  contains  some  of  her  best  work,  although  Clowns' 
Houses  (1918)  reveals  a  more  piquant  idiom  and  a  sharper 
turn  of  mind. 


THE  WEB  OF  EROS 

Within  your  magic  web  of  hair,  lies  furled 
The  fire  and  splendour  of  the  ancient  world; 
The  dire  gold  of  the  comet's  wind-blown  hair ; 
The  songs  that  turned  to  gold  the  evening  air 
206 


Edith  Sitwell 

When  all  the  stars  of  heaven  sang  for  joy. 
The  flames  that  burnt  the  cloud-high  city  Troy. 
The  maenad  fire  of  spring  on  the  cold  earth; 
The  myrrh-lit  flame  that  gave  both  death  and  birth 
To  the  soul  Phoenix ;  and  the  star-bright  shower 
That  came  to  Danae  in  her  brazen  tower  .    .    . 
Within  your  magic  web  of  hair  lies  furled 
The  fire  and  splendour  of  the  ancient  world. 


INTERLUDE 

Amid  this  hot  green  glowing  gloom 
A  word  falls  with  a  raindrop's  boom   .    . 

Like  baskets  of  ripe  fruit  in  air 
The  bird-songs  seem,  suspended  where 

Those  goldfinches — the  ripe  warm  lights 
Peck  slyly  at  them — take  quick  flights. 

My  feet  are  feathered  like  a  bird 
Among  the  shadows  scarcely  heard ; 

I  bring  you  branches  green  with  dew 
And  fruits  thaf  you  may  crown  anew 

Your  whirring  waspish-gilded  hair 
Amid  this  cornucopia — 

Until  your  warm  lips  bear  the  stains 
And  bird-blood  leap  within  your  veins. 
207 


F.  W.  Harvey 

Harvey  was  a  lance-corporal  in  the  English  army  and  was 
in  the  German  prison  camp  at  Giitersloh  when  he  wrote  The 
Bugler,  one  of  the  isolated  great  poems  written  during  the  war. 
Much  of  his  other  verse  is  haphazard  and  journalistic,  although 
Gloucestershire  Friends  contains  several  lines  that  glow  with 
the  colors  of  poetry. 

THE  BUGLER 

God  dreamed  a  man ; 
Then,  having  firmly  shut 
Life  like  a  precious  metal  in  his  fist 
Withdrew,  His  labour  done.     Thus  did  begin 
Our  various  divinity  and  sin. 
For  some  to  ploughshares  did  the  metal  twist, 
And  others — dreaming  empires — straightway  cut 
Crowns  for  their  aching  foreheads.    Others  beat 
Long  nails  and  heavy  hammers  for  the  feet 
Of  their  forgotten  Lord.     (Who  dares  to  boast 
That  he  is  guiltless?)     Others  coined  it:  most 
Did  with  it — simply  nothing.     (Here  again 
Who  cries  his  innocence?)     Yet  doth  remain 
Metal  unmarred,  to  each  man  more  or  less, 
Whereof  to  fashion  perfect  loveliness. 

For  me,  I  do  but  bear  within  my  hand 
(For  sake  of  Him  our  Lord,  now  long  forsaken) 
A  simple  bugle  such  as  may  awaken 
With  one  high  morning  note  a  drowsing  man: 
That  wheresoever  within  my  motherland 
That  sound  may  come,  'twill  echo  far  and  wide 
Like  pipes  of  battle  calling  up  a  clan, 
Trumpeting  men  through  beauty  to  God's  side. 
208 


T.  P.  Cameron  Wilson 

"  Tony "  P.  Cameron  Wilson  was  born  in  South  Devon  in 
1889  and  was  educated  at  Exeter  and  Oxford.  He  wrote  one 
novel  besides  several  articles  under  the  pseudonym  Tipuca,  a 
euphonic  combination  of  the  first  three  initials  of  his  name. 

When  the  war  broke  out  he  was  a  teacher  in  a  school  at 
Hindhead,  Surrey;  and,  after  many  months  of  gruelling  con- 
flict, he  was  given  a  captaincy.  He  was  killed  in  action  by  a 
machine-gun  bullet  March  23,  1918,  at  the  age  of  29. 


SPORTSMEN  IN  PARADISE 

They  left  the  fury  of  the  fight, 

And  they  were  very  tired. 
The  gates  of  Heaven  were  open  quite, 

Unguarded  and  unwired. 
There  was  no  sound  of  any  gun, 

The  land  was  still  and  green; 
Wide  hills  lay  silent  in  the  sun, 

Blue  valleys  slept  between. 

They  saw  far-off  a  little  wood 

Stand  up  against  the  sky. 
Knee-deep  in  grass  a  great  tree  stood; 

Some  lazy  cows  went  by   ... 
There  were  some  rooks  sailed  overhead, 

And  once  a  church-bell  pealed. 
" God!  but  it's  England''  someone  said 

"  And  there's  a  cricket-field!  " 


209 


W.  J.   Turner 

W.  J.  Turner  was  born  in  1889  and,  although  little  known 
until  his  appearance  in  Georgian  Poetry  1916-17,  has  writ- 
ten no  few  delicate  and  fanciful  poems.  The  Hunter  (1916) 
and  The  Dark  Wind  (1918)  both  contain  many  verses  as  mov- 
ing and  musical  as  his  splendid  lines  on  "  Death,"  a  poem 
which  is  unfortunately  too  long  to  quote. 


ROMANCE 

When  I  was  but  thirteen  or  so 
I  went  into  a  golden  land, 

Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 
Took  me  by  the  hand. 

My  father  died,  my  brother  too, 
They  passed  like  fleeting  dreams, 

I  stood  where  Popocatapetl 
In  the  sunlight  gleams. 

I  dimly  heard  the  master's  voice 
And  boys  far-off  at  play, — 

Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 
Had  stolen  me  away. 

I  walked  in  a  great  golden  dream 
To  and  fro  from  school — 

Shining  Popocatapetl 

The  dusty  streets  did  rule. 

I  walked  home  with  a  gold  dark  boy 
And  never  a  word  I'd  say, 

Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 

Had  taken  my  speech  away. 

210 


W .  J.   Turner 

I  gazed  entranced  upon  his  face 
Fairer  than  any  flower — 

O  shining  Popocatapetl 
It  was  thy  magic  hour: 

The  houses,  people,  traffic  seemed 

Thin  fading  dreams  by  day; 
Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi, 
They  had  stolen  my  soul  away! 


Patrick  MacGill 

Patrick  MacGill  was  born  in  Donegal  in  1890.  He  was  the 
son  of  poverty-stricken  peasants  and,  between  the  ages  of  12 
and  19,  he  worked  as  farm-servant,  drainer,  potato-digger,  and 
navvy,  becoming  one  of  the  thousands  of  stray  "  tramp-labor- 
ers "  who  cross  each  summer  from  Ireland  to  Scotland  to  help 
gather  in  the  crops.  Out  of  his  bitter  experiences  and  the  evils 
of  modern  industrial  life,  he  wrote  several  vivid  novels  (The 
Rat  Pit  is  an  unforgettable  document)  and  the  tragedy-crammed 
Songs  of  the  Dead  End.  He  joined  the  editorial  staff  of  The 
Daily  Express  in  1911;  was  in  the  British  army  during  the 
war;  was  wounded  at  Loos  in  1915;  and  wrote  his  Soldier 
Songs  during  the  conflict. 


BY-THE-WAY 

These  be  the  little  verses,  rough  and  uncultured,  which 
I've  written  in  hut  and  model,  deep  in  the  dirty  ditch, 
On  the  upturned  hod  by  the  palace  made  for  the  idle  rich. 

211 


Patrick  MacGill 

Out  on  the  happy  highway,  or  lines  where  the  engines  go, 
Which  fact  you  may  hardly  credit,  still  for  your  doubts 

'tis  so, 
For  I  am  the  person  who  wrote  them,  and  surely  to  God, 

I  know! 

Wrote  them  beside  the  hot-plate,  or  under  the  chilling 

skies, 

Some  of  them  true  as  death  is,  some  of  them  merely  lies, 
Some  of  them  very  foolish,  some  of  them  otherwise. 

Little  sorrows  and  hopings,  little  and  rugged  rhymes, 
Some  of  them  maybe  distasteful  to  the  moral  men  of  our 

times, 

Some  of  them  marked  against  me  in  the  Book  of  the 
Many  Crimes. 

These,  the  Songs  of  a  Navvy,  bearing  the  taint  of  the 

brute, 

Unasked,  uncouth,  unworthy  out  to  the  world  I  put, 
Stamped  with  the  brand  of  labor,  the  heel  of  a  navvy's 

boot. 


DEATH  AND  THE  FAIRIES 

Before  I  joined  the  Army 

I  lived  in  Donegal, 
Where  every  night  the  Fairies 

Would  hold  their  carnival. 

212 


Patrick  MacGill 

But  now  I'm  out  in  Flanders, 
Where  men  like  wheat-ears  fall, 

And  it's  Death  and  not  the  Fairies 
Who  is  holding  carnival. 


Francis  Ledwidge 

Francis  Ledwidge  was  born  in  Slane,  County  Meath,  Ireland, 
in  1891.  His  brief  life  was  fitful  and  romantic.  He  was,  at 
various  times,  a  miner,  a  grocer's  clerk,  a  farmer,  a  scavenger, 
an  experimenter  in  hypnotism,  and,  at  the  end,  a  soldier.  He 
served  as  a  lance-corporal  on  the  Flanders  front  and  was 
killed  in  July,  1917,  at  the  age  of  26  years. 

Ledwidge's  poetry  is  rich  in  nature  imagery;  his  lines  are 
full  of  color,  in  the  manner  of  Keats,  and  unaffectedly  melo- 
dious. 


AN  EVENING  IN  ENGLAND 

From  its  blue  vase  the  rose  of  evening  drops; 

Upon  the  streams  its  petals  float  away. 

The  hills  all  blue  with  distance  hide  their  tops 

In  the  dim  silence  falling  on  the  grey. 

A  little  wind  said  "  Hush!  "  and  shook  a  spray 

Heavy  with  May's  white  crop  of  opening  bloom ; 

A  silent  bat  went  dipping  in  the  gloom. 

Night  tells  her  rosary  of  stars  full  soon, 
They  drop  from  out  her  dark  hand  to  her  knees. 
Upon  a  silhouette  of  woods,  the  moon 
213 


Francis  Ledwidge 

Leans  on  one  horn  as  if  beseeching  ease 
From  all  her  changes  which  have  stirred  the  seas. 
Across  the  ears  of  Toil,  Rest  throws  her  veil. 
I  and  a  marsh  bird  only  make  a  wail. 


EVENING  CLOUDS 

A  little  flock  of  clouds  go  down  to  rest 
In  some  blue  corner  off  the  moon's  highway, 
With  shepherd-winds  that  shook  them  in  the  West 
To  borrowed  shapes  of  earth,  in  bright  array, 
Perhaps  to  weave  a  rainbow's  gay  festoons 
Around  the  lonesome  isle  which  Brooke  has  made 
A  little  England  full  of  lovely  noons, 
Or  dot  it  with  his  country's  mountain  shade. 

Ah,  little  wanderers,  when  you  reach  that  isle1 
Tell  him,  with  dripping  dew,  they  have  not  failed, 
What  he  loved  most;  for  late  I  roamed  a  while 
Thro'  English  fields  and  down  her  rivers  sailed ; 
And  they  remember  him  with  beauty  caught 
From  old  desires  of  Oriental  Spring 
Heard  in  his  heart  with  singing  overwrought; 
And  still  on  Purley  Common  gooseboys  sing. 

!The  island  of  Skyros  where  Rupert  Brooke  was  buried.  (See 
page  194.) 


214 


Irene  Rutherford  McLeod 

Irene  Rutherford  McLeod,  born  August  21,  1891,  has  written 
three  volumes  of  direct  and  often  distinguished  verse,  the  best 
of  which  may  be  found  in  Songs  to  Save  a  Soul  (1915)  and 
Before  Dawn  (1918).  The  latter  volume  is  dedicated  to  A. 
de  Selincourt,  to  whom  she  was  married  in  1919. 


"  IS  LOVE,  THEN,  SO  SIMPLE  " 

Is  love,  then,  so  simple  my  dear? 

The  opening  of  a  door, 
And  seeing  all  things  clear? 

I  did  not  know  before. 

I  had  thought  it  unrest  and  desire 

Soaring  only  to  fall, 
Annihilation  and  fire: 

It  is  not  so  at  all. 

I  feel  no  desperate  will, 

But  I  think  I  understand 
Many  things,  as  I  sit  quite  still, 

With  Eternity  in  my  hand. 

LONE  DOG 

I'm  a  lean  dog,  a  keen  dog,  a  wild  dog,  and  lone; 
I'm  a  rough  dog,  a  tough  dog,  hunting  on  my  own ; 
I'm  a  bad  dog,  a  mad  dog,  teasing  silly  sheep  ; 
I  love  to  sit  and  bay  the  moon,  to  keep  fat  souls 
from  sleep, 

215 


Irene  Rutherford  McLeod 

I'll  never  be  a  lap  dog,  licking  dirty  feet, 
A  sleek  dog,  a  meek  dog,  cringing  for  my  meat, 
Not  for  me  the  fireside,  the  well-filled  plate, 
But  shut  door,  and  sharp  stone,  and  cuff  and  kick, 
and  hate. 

Not  for  me  the  other  dogs,  running  by  my  side, 
Some  have  run  a  short  while,  but  none  of  them 

would  bide. 
O  mine  is  still  the  lone  trail,  the  hard  trail,  the 

best, 
Wide  wind,  and  wild  stars,  and  hunger  of  the  quest! 


Richard  Aldington 

Richard  Aldington  was  born  in  England  in  1892,  and  edu- 
cated at  Dover  College  and  London  University.  His  first  poems 
were  published  in  England  in  1909;  Images  Old  and  New  ap- 
peared in  1915.  Aldington  and  "  H.  D."  (Hilda  Doolittle,  his 
American  wife)  are  conceded  to  be  two  of  the  foremost  imagist 
poets;  their  sensitive,  firm  and  clean-cut  lines  put  to  shame 
their  scores  of  imitators.  Aldington's  W ar  and  Love  (1918), 
from  which  "  Prelude  "  is  taken,  is  somewhat  more  regular  in 
pattern;  the  poems  in  this  latter  volume  are  less  consciously 
artistic  but  warmer  arid  more  humanly  searching. 


PRELUDE 

How  could  I  love  you  more? 
I  would  give  up 

Even  that  beauty  I  have  loved  too  well 
That  I  might  love  you  better. 
216 


Richard  Aldington 

Alas,  how  poor  the  gifts  that  lovers  give — 
I  can  but  give  you  of  my  flesh  and  strength, 
I  can  but  give  you  these  few  passing  days 
And  passionate  words  that,  since  our  speech  began, 
All  lovers  whisper  in  all  ladies'  ears. 

I  try  to  think  of  some  one  lovely  gift 

No  lover  yet  in  all  the  world  has  found; 

I  think:  If  the  cold  sombre  gods 

Were  hot  with  love  as  I  am 

Could  they  not  endow  you  with  a  star 

And  fix  bright  youth  for  ever  in  your  limbs? 

Could  they  not  give  you  all  things  that  I  lack? 

You  should  have  loved  a  god ;  I  am  but  dust. 
Yet  no  god  loves  as  loves  this  poor  frail  dust. 


IMAGES 

i 

Like  a  gondola  of  green  scented  fruits 
Drifting  along  the  dank  canals  of  Venice, 
You,  O  exquisite  one, 
Have  entered  into  my  desolate  city. 

II 

The  blue  smoke  leaps 
Like  swirling  clouds  of  birds  vanishing. 
So  my  love  leaps  forth  toward  you, 
Vanishes  and  is  renewed. 
217 


Richard  Aldington 

in 

A  rose-yellow  moon  in  a  pale  sky 
When  the  sunset  is  faint  vermilion 
In  the  mist  among  the  tree-boughs 
Art  thou  to  me,  my  beloved. 

IV 

A  young  beech  tree  on  the  edge  of  the  forest 

Stands  still  in  the  evening, 

Yet  shudders  through  all  its  leaves  in  the 

light  air 

And  seems  to  fear  the  stars — 
So  are  you  still  and  so  tremble. 

v 

The  red  deer  are  high  on  the  mountain, 
They  are  beyond  the  last  pine  trees. 
And  my  desires  have  run  with  them. 

VI 

The  flower  which  the  wind  has  shaken 
Is  soon  filled  again  with  rain; 
So  does  my  heart  fill  slowly  with  tears, 
O  Foam-Driver,  Wind-of-the- Vineyards, 
Until  you  return. 

AT  THE  BRITISH  MUSEUM 

I  turn  the  page  and  read: 
"  I  dream  of  silent  verses  where  the  rhyme 
Glides  noiseless  as  an  oar." 
218 


Richard  Aldington 

The  heavy  musty  air,  the  black  desks, 

The  bent  heads  and  the  rustling  noises 

In  the  great  dome 

Vanish   .    .    . 

And 

The  sun  hangs  in  the  cobalt-blue  sky, 

The  boat  drifts  over  the  lake  shallows, 

The  fishes  skim  like  umber  shades  through  the 

undulating  weeds, 

The  oleanders  drop  their  rosy  petals  on  the  lawns, 
And  the  swallows  dive  and  swirl  and  whistle 
About  the  cleft  battlements  of  Can  Grande's 

castle.   .    .    . 

Edward  Shanks 

Edward  Shanks  was  born  in  London  in  1892  and  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  He  has  reviewed  verse  and  belles 
lettres  for  several  years  for  various  English  publications,  and  is 
at  present  assistant  editor  of  The  London  Mercury.  His  The 
Queen  of  China  and  Other  Poems  appeared  late  in  1919. 

COMPLAINT 

When  in  the  mines  of  dark  and  silent  thought 
Sometimes  I  delve  and  find  strange  fancies  there, 
With  heavy  labour  to  the  surface  brought 
That  lie  and  mock  me  in  the  brighter  air, 
Poor  ores  from  starved  lodes  of  poverty, 
Unfit  for  working  or  to  be  refined, 
That  in  the  darkness  cheat  the  miner's  eye, 
I  turn  away  from  that  base  cave,  the  mind, 
219 


Edward  Shanks 

Yet  had  I  but  the  power  to  crush  the  stone 
There  are  strange  metals  hid  in  flakes  therein, 
Each  flake  a  spark  sole-hidden  and  alone, 
That  only  cunning,  toilsome  chemists  win. 
All  this  I  know,  and  yet  my  chemistry 
Fails  and  the  pregnant  treasures  useless  lie. 


Osbert  Sitwell 

Born  in  London,  December  6th,  1892,  Osbert  Sitwell  (son  of 
Sir  George  Sitwell  and  brother  of  Edith  Sitwell)  was  edu- 
cated at  Eton  and  became  an  officer  in  the  Grenadier  Guards, 
with  whom  he  served  in  France  for  various  periods  from  1914 
to  1917. 

His  first  contributions  appeared  in  Wheels  (an  annual 
anthology  of  a  few  of  the  younger  radical  writers,  edited  by 
his  sister)  and  disclosed  an  ironic  and  strongly  individual 
touch.  That  impression  is  strengthened  by  a  reading  of 
Argonaut  and  Juggernaut  (1920),  where  SitwelPs  cleverness 
and  satire  are  fused.  His  most  remarkable  though  his  least 
brilliant  poems  are  his  irregular  and  fiery  protests  against 
smugness  and  hypocrisy.  But  even  Sitwell's  more  conventional 
poetry  has  a  freshness  of  movement  and  definiteness  of  outline. 


THE  BLIND  PEDLAR 

I  stand  alone  through  each  long  day 
Upon  these  pavers;  cannot  see 
The  wares  spread  out  upon  this  tray 
— For  God  has  taken  sight  from  me! 
220 


Osbert  Sitwell 

Many  a  time  I've  cursed  the  night 
When  I  was  born.     My  peering  eyes 
Have  sought  for  but  one  ray  of  light 
To  pierce  the  darkness.    When  the  skies 

Rain  down  their  first  sweet  April  showers 
On  budding  branches;  when  the  morn 
Is  sweet  with  breath  of  spring  and  flowers, 
I've  cursed  the  night  when  I  was  born. 

But  now  I  thank  God,  and  am  glad 
For  what  I  cannot  see  this  day 
— The  young  men  cripples,  old,  and  sad, 
With  faces  burnt  and  torn  away; 

Or  those  who,  growing  rich  and  old, 
Have  battened  on  the  slaughter, 
Whose  faces,  gorged  with  blood  and  gold, 
Are  creased  in  purple  laughter! 


PROGRESS 

The  city's  heat  is  like  a  leaden  pall — 
Its  lowered  lamps  glow  in  the  midnight  air 
Like  mammoth  orange-moths  that  flit  and  flare 
Through  the  dark  tapestry  of  night.     The  tall 
Black  houses  crush  the  creeping  beggars  down, 
Who  walk  beneath  and  think  of  breezes  cool, 
Of  silver  bodies  bathing  in  a  pool ; 


Osbert  Sitwell 

Or  trees  that  whisper  in  some  far,  small  town 
Whose  quiet  nursed  them,  when  they  thought  that 
Was  merely  metal,  not  a  grave  of  mould 
In  which  men  bury  all  that's  fine  and  fair. 
When  they  could  chase  the  jewelled  butterfly 
Through  the  green  bracken-scented  lanes  or  sigh 
For  all  the  future  held  so  rich  and  rare; 
When,  though  they  knew  it  not,  their  baby  cries 
Were  lovely  as  the  jewelled  butterflies. 


Robert  Nichols 

Robert  Nichols  was  born  on  the  Isle  of  Wight  in  1893.  His 
first  volume,  Invocations  (1915),  was  published  while  he  was 
at  the  front,  Nichols  having  joined  the  army  while  he  was  still 
an  undergraduate  at  Trinity  College,  Oxford.  After  serving 
one  year  as  second  lieutenant  in  the  Royal  Field  Artillery,  he 
was  incapacitated  by  shell  shock,  visiting  America  in  1918-19 
as  a  lecturer.  His  Ardours  and  Endurances  (1917)  is  the  most 
representative  work  of  this  poet,  although  his  new  volume, 
The  Flower  of  Flame  (1920),  shows  a  steady  advance  in 
power. 

NEARER 

Nearer  and  ever  nearer  .   .    . 
My  body,  tired  but  tense, 
Hovers  'twixt  vague  pleasure 
And  tremulous  confidence. 

Arms  to  have  and  to  use  them 
And  a  soul  to  be  made 
Worthy,  if  not  worthy; 
If  afraid,  unafraid. 

222 


Robert  Nichols 

To  endure  for  a  little, 
To  endure  and  have  done: 
Men  I  love  about  me, 
Over  me  the  sun! 

And  should  at  last  suddenly 
Fly  the  speeding  death, 
The  four  great  quarters  of  heaven 
Receive  this  little  breath. 


Charles  Hamilton  Sorley 

Charles  Hamilton  Sorley,  who  promised  greater  things  than 
any  of  the  younger  poets,  was  born  at  Old  Aberdeen  in  May, 
1895.  He  studied  at  Marlborough  College  and  University 
College,  Oxford.  He  was  finishing  his  studies  abroad  and  was 
on  a  walking-tour  along  the  banks  of  the  Moselle  when  the 
war  came.  Sorley  returned  home  to  receive  an  immediate  com- 
mission in  the  7th  Battalion  of  the  Suffolk  Regiment.  In  Au- 
gust, 1915,  at  the  age  of  20,  he  was  made  a  captain.  On  Octo- 
ber 13,  1915,  he  was  killed  in  action  near  Hulluch. 

Sorley  left  but  one  book,  Marlborough  and  Other  Poems.  The 
verse  contained  in  it  is  sometimes  rough  but  never  rude.  Al- 
though he  admired  Masefield,  loveliness  rather  than  liveliness 
was  his  aim.  Restraint,  tolerance,  and  a  dignity  unusual  for  a 
boy  of  20,  distinguish  his  poetry. 


TWO  SONNETS 

i 

Saints  have  adored  the  lofty  soul  of  you. 
Poets  have  whitened  at  your  high  renown. 
We  stand  among  the  many  millions  who 
Do  hourly  wait  to  pass  your  pathway  down. 
223 


Charles  Hamilton  Sorley 

You,  so  familiar,  once  were  strange:  we  tried 

To  live  as  of  your  presence  unaware. 

But  now  in  every  road  on  every  side 

We  see  your  straight  and  steadfast  signpost  there. 

I  think  it  like  that  signpost, in  my  land 
Hoary  and  tall,  which  pointed  me  to  go 
Upward,  into  the  hills,  on  the  right  hand, 
Where  the  mists  swim  and  the  winds  shriek  and 

blow, 

A  homeless  land  and  friendless,  but  a  land 
I  did  not  know  and  that  I  wished  to  know. 

II 

Such,  such  is  Death:  no  triumph:  no  defeat: 
Only  an  empty  pail,  a  slate  rubbed  clean, 
A  merciful  putting  away  of  what  has  been. 

And  this  we  know:  Death  is  not  Life  effete, 
Life  crushed,  the  broken  pail.    We  who  have  seen 
So  marvellous  things  know  well  the  end  not  yet. 

Victor  and  vanquished  are  a-one  in  death: 

Coward  and  brave:  friend,  foe.     Ghosts  do  not  say, 

"  Come,  what  was  your  record  when  you  drew 

breath  ?" 

But  a  big  blot  has  hid  each  yesterday 
So  poor,  so  manifestly  incomplete. 
And  your  bright  Promise,  withered  long  and  sped, 
Is  touched ;  stirs,  rises,  opens  and  grows  sweet 
And  blossoms  and  is  you,  when  you  are  dead. 

224 


Charles  Hamilton  Sorley 

TO  GERMANY 

You  are  blind  like  us.    Your  hurt  no  man  designed, 
And  no  man  claimed  the  conquest  of  your  land. 
But  gropers  both,  through  fields  of  thought  confined, 
We  stumble  and  we  do  not  understand. 
You  only  saw  your  future  bigly  planned, 
And  we  the  tapering  paths  of  our  own  mind, 
And  in  each  other's  dearest  ways  we  stand, 
And  hiss  and  hate.     And  the  blind  fight  the  blind. 

When  it  is  peace,  then  we  may  view  again 
With  new-won  eyes  each  other's  truer  form 
And  wonder.    Grown  more  loving-kind  and  warm 
We'll  grasp  firm  hands  and  laugh  at  the  old  pain, 
When  it  is  peace.    But  until  peace,  the  storm, 
The  darkness  and  the  thunder  and  the  rain. 

Robert  Graves 

Robert  Graves  was  born  July  26,  1895.  One  of  "  the  three 
rhyming  musketeers"  (the  other  two  being  the  poets  Siegfried 
Sassoon  and  Robert  Nichols),  he  was  one  of  several  writers 
who,  roused  by  the  war  and  giving  himself  to  his  country, 
refused  to  glorify  warfare  or  chant  new  hymns  of  hate.  Like 
Sassoon,  Graves  also  reacts  against  the  storm  of  fury  and 
blood-lust  (see  his  poem  "To  a  Dead  Boche"),  but,  fortified 
by  a  lighter  and  more  whimsical  spirit,  where  Sassoon  is  vio- 
lent, Graves  is  volatile;  where  Sassoon  is  bitter,  Graves  is 
almost  blithe. 

An  unconquerable  gayety  rises  from  his  Fairies  and  Fusiliers 
(1917),  a  surprising  and  healing  humor  that  is  warmly  indi- 

225 


Robert  Graves 

vidual.  In  Country  Sentiment  (1919)  Graves  turns  to  a  fresh 
and  more  serious  simplicity.  But  a  buoyant  fancy  ripples  be- 
neath the  most  archaic  of  his  ballads  and  a  quaintly  original 
turn  of  mind  saves  them  from  their  own  echoes. 


ITS  A  QUEER  TIME 

It's  hard  to  know  if  you're  alive  or  dead 

When  steel  and  fire  go  roaring  through  your  head. 

One  moment  you'll  be  crouching  at  your  gun 
Traversing,  mowing  heaps  down  half  in  fun: 
The  next,  you  choke  and  clutch  at  your  right  breast — 
No  time  to  think — leave  all — and  off  you  go   ... 
To  Treasure  Island  where  the  Spice  winds  blow, 
To  lovely  groves  of  mango,  quince  and  lime — 
Breathe  no  good-bye,  but  ho,  for  the  Red  West! 
It's  a  queer  time. 

You're  charging  madly  at  them  yelling  "  Fag!  " 
When  somehow  something  gives  and  your  feet  drag. 
You  fall  and  strike  your  head;  yet  feel  no  pain 
And  find   .    .    .   you're  digging  tunnels  through  the 

hay 

In  the  Big  Barn,  'cause  it's  a  rainy  day. 
Oh,  springy  hay,  and  lovely  beams  to  climb! 
You're  back  in  the  old  sailor  suit  again. 
It's  a  queer  time. 
226 


Robert  Graves 

Or  you'll  be  dozing  safe  in  your  dug-out — 

A  great  roar — the  trench  shakes  and  falls  about — 

You're  struggling,  gasping,  struggling,  then  .    .    . 

hullo! 

Elsie  comes  tripping  gaily  down  the  trench, 
Hanky  to  nose — that  lyddite  makes  a  stench — 
Getting  her  pinafore  all  over  grime. 
Funny!  because  she  died  ten  years  ago! 
It's  a  queer  time. 

The  trouble  is,  things  happen  much  too  quick; 
Up  jump  the  Boches,  rifles  thump  and  click, 
You  stagger,  and  the  whole  scene  fades  away: 
Even  good   Christians  don't  like  passing  straight 
From  Tipperary  or  their  Hymn  of  Hate 
To  Alleluiah-chanting,  and  the  chime 
Of  golden  harps  .    .    .   and   .    .    .  I'm  not  well 
to-day  .    .    . 

It's  a  queer  time. 


A  PINCH  OF  SALT 

When  a  dream  is  born  in  you 

With  a  sudden  clamorous  pain, 
When  you  know  the  dream  is  true 

And  lovely,  with  no  flaw  nor  stain, 
O  then,  be  careful,  or  with  sudden  clutch 
You'll  hurt  the  delicate  thing  you  prize  so  much. 
227 


Robert  Graves 

Dreams  are  like  a  bird  that  mocks, 

Flirting  the  feathers  of  his  tail. 
When  you  seize  at  the  salt-box, 

Over  the  hedge  you'll  see  him  sail. 
Old  birds  are  neither  caught  with  salt  nor  chaff: 
They  watch  you  from  the  apple  bough  and  laugh. 

Poet,  never  chase  the  dream. 

Laugh  yourself,  and  turn  away. 
Mask  your  hunger ;  let  it  seem 

Small  matter  if  he  come  or  stay; 
But  when  he  nestles  in  your  hand  at  last, 
Close  up  your  fingers  tight  and  hold  him  fast. 


I  WONDER  WHAT  IT  FEELS  LIKE  TO 
BE  DROWNED? 

Look  at  my  knees, 

That  island  rising  from  the  steamy  seas! 

The  candle's  a  tall  lightship;  my  two  hands 

Are  boats  and  barges  anchored  to  the  sands, 

With  mighty  cliffs  all  round; 

They're  full  of  wine  and  riches  from  far  lands.   .    .    . 

/  wonder  what  it  feels  like  to  be  drowned? 

I  can  make  caves, 

By  lifting  up  the  island  and  huge  waves 
And  storms,  and  then  with  head  and  ears  well  under 
Blow  bubbles  with  a  monstrous  roar  like  thunder, 
228 


Robert  Graves 

A  bull-of-Bashan  sound. 

The  seas  run  high  and  the  boats  split  asunder   .    . 

/  wonder  what  it  feels  like  to  be  drowned? 

The  thin  soap  slips 

And  slithers  like  a  shark  under  the  ships. 

My  toes  are  on  the  soap-dish — that's  the  effect 

Of  my  huge  storms;  an  iron  steamer's  wrecked. 

The  soap  slides  round  and  round; 

He's  biting  the  old  sailors,  I  expect.   .    .    . 

/  wonder  what  it  feels  like  to  be  drowned? 


THE  LAST  POST 

The  bugler  sent  a  call  of  high  romance — 
" Lights  out!    Lights  out!  "  to  the  deserted  square. 
On  the  thin  brazen  notes  he  threw  a  prayer : 
"  God,  if  it's  this  for  me  next  time  in  France, 
O  spare  the  phantom  bugle  as  I  lie 
Dead  in  the  gas  and  smoke  and  roar  of  guns, 
Dead  in  a  row  with  other  broken  ones, 
Lying  so  stiff  and  still  under  the  sky- 
Jolly  young  Fusiliers,  too  good  to  die   .    .    ." 
The  music  ceased,  and  the  red  sunset  flare 
Was  blood  about  his  head  as  he  stood  there. 


229 


INDEX 


Names  of  Authors  are  in  Capitals.     Titles  of  Poems  are  in  Italics. 


ABERCROMBIE,  LASCELLES,  xxiv, 

174-177 

"  A.  E.,"  xvii,  76-77 
Aftermath,  192 
ALDINGTON,  RICHARD,  216-219 
All-Souls,  44 
An  Athlete  Dying  Young,  To, 

38 

An  Old  Fogey,  To,  45 
Arab  Love-Song,  An,  35 
Astrologer's  Song,  An,  66 
At  the  British  Museum,  218 
A  Traveller,  To,  72 
AUSTIN,  ALFRED,  xii,  5,  27 

Ballad  of  Hell,  A,  22 
Ballad  of  London,  A,  69 
Ballad  of  the  Billycock,   The, 

90 

Barrel-Organ,  The,  154 
Beautiful  Lie  the  Dead,  78 
Beauty's  a  Flower,  100 
Before,  n 
Beg-Innish,  95 
BELLOC,  HILAIRE,   86-89 
BINYON,  LAURENCE,  79-80 
Birdcatcher,  The,   144 
Blackbird,    The,    10 
Blind  Pedlar,  The,  220 
Bowl  of  Roses,  A,  n 
BRIDGES,  ROBERT,  5-7 
Broken  Song,  A,  99 
BROOKE,    RUPERT,    xxiii,     193- 

200 

Bugler,  The,  208 
By-the-Way,  211 


231 


CAMPBELL,  JOSEPH,  165-166 

Cap  and  Bells,  The,  54 

CHESSON  NORA  (see  Nora 
Hopper) 

CHESTERTON,  G.  K.,  xxiii,  110- 
119 

Choice,  The,  131 

Clair  de  Lune,  102 

Cock-Crow,  138 

COLUM,  PADRAIC,  xvii,  162- 
165 

Complaint,  219 

Connaught  Lament,  A,  97 

Consecration,  A,  126 

Conundrum  of  the  Work- 
shops, The,  63 

CORNFORD,  FRANCES,  184-186 

Daisy,  32 
Dauber,  xxii,  128 
DAVIDSON,  JOHN,  22-27 
DAVIES,    W.     H.,    xxiii,    xxv, 

83-86 

Days  Too  Short,  84 
DEANE,  ANTHONY  C,  89-93 
Death  and  the  Fairies,  212 
DE   LA  MARE,   WALTER,  xxiii, 

105-110 

Donkey,  The,  119 
DOUGLAS,  ALFRED,  80-8 1 
DOWSON,  ERNEST,  73-76 
Drake's  Drum,  49 
Dream,  A,  79 
Dreamers,  190 
DRINKWATER,  JOHN,  xxiv,  170- 

171 


Index 


DUNSANY,  EDWARD  LORD,   133- 
136 

DUSty       198 

Dying-Swan,  The,  82 

Epilogue,  161 

Epitaph,  42 

Epitaph,  An,  107 

Estrangement,  30 

Eve,    140 

Evening  Clouds,  214 

Evening  in  England,  An,  213 

Everlasting   Mercy,   The,  xxii 

Every   Thing,  146 

Example,  The,  86 

Fi/ty  Faggots,  137 

FLECKER,    JAMES    ELROY,    178- 

179 

F/*^/  S/r^*,  183 
FLINT,  F.  S.,  205-206 
FREEMAN,  JOHN,  181-182 

GEORGIANS,     THE,     xi,     xxiii- 

xxiv 

Germany,  To,  225 
GIBSON,    W.    W.,    xxiii,    xxv, 

119-125 

GILBERT,  W.  S.,  xiv 
Going  and  Staying,  4 
GORE-BOOTH,  EVA,  98-99 
Grandeur,  201 
GRAVES,    ROBERT,    xxiii,    225- 

229 

Great  Breath,  The,  76 
Great  Lover,  The,  195 
Green  River,  The,  81 
Gunga  Din,  57 

HARDY,  THOMAS,  xvi,  3-4 
HARVEY,   F.   W.,   208 
HENLEY,    W.    E.,    xi,   xv-xvii, 


"Herod,"  Fragment  from,  78 
HINKSON,  KATHARINE  TYNAN, 
xvii,  43-45 


HODGSON,    RALPH,    xxiii,    xxv, 

139-144 

HOPPER,  NORA,  97 
House,  A,  172 
House  that  Was,  The,  80 
HOUSMAN,  A.  E.,  xxv,  36-40 
HUEFFER,  F.  M.,  102-105 
HYDE,  DOUGLAS,  xvii,  40-41 

/   am    the  Mountainy   Singer, 

165 

I  Hear  an  Army,  171 
/  Shall  not  Die  for  Thee,  40 
/  Wonder  What  It  Feels  Like 

to   be  Drowned?  228 
//  /  Should  Ever  Grow  Rich, 
'136 

Images,  217 
Imagination,  26 
Impression  du  Matin,  21 
In  Flanders  Fields,  101 
Interlude,  207 
In  the  Mile  End  Road,  42 
In  the  Wood  of  Finvarat  50 
In  Time  of  "  The  Breaking  of 

Nations,"  3 
Invictus,  10 

"Is  Love,  then,  so  simple"  215 
//'/  a  Queer  Time,  226 

JACKSON,  HOLBROOK,  xiv-xv 
JOHNSON,  LIONEL,  xvii,  71-73 
JOYCE,  JAMES,  171 
KETTLE,  T.  M.,  149-150 
KIPLING,  RUDYARD,  xi,  xx-xxiv 

56-68 
Lake   Isle    of   Innisfree,    The, 

53 

Last  Post,  The,  229 
LAWRENCE,  D.   H.,  xxiii,   179- 

181 

LEDWIDGE,  FRANCIS,  213-214 
LE    GALLIENNE,    RICHARD,    xv, 

68-70 

Lepanto,  in 
LESLIE,  SHANE,  183-184 


232 


Index 


LETTS,  W.  M.,  200-204 

LEVY,  AMY,  41-43 

Listeners,  The,  106 

Lcchanilaun,  204 

London,  205 

Lone  Dog,  215 

"  Loveliest  of  Trees,"  39 

MACCATHMHAOIL  SEOSAMH  (see 

Joseph   Campbell] 
MACGILL,  PATRICK,  211-213 
MACLEOD,  FIONA,  18-19 
McLEOD,  IRENE  R.,  215-216 
MCCRAE,  JOHN,  101 
Man  He  Killed,  The,  4 
Margarita  Sorori,  12 
MASEFIELD,  JOHN,  xi,  xxi-xxii, 

xxv,  125-132 
MEYNELL,  ALICE,  16-17 
Modern  Beauty,  51 
MONRO,  HAROLD,  144-149 
Moon,  The,  85 
MOORE,  GEORGE,  xviii 
MOORE,  T.  STURGE,  81-83 
My  Daughter  Betty,    To,   150 
Mystery,  The,  144 
Mystic  and  Cavalier,  71 

Nearer,  222 

NEWBOLT,  HENRY,  xxiv,  49-50 
NICHOLS,  ROBERT,  222-223,  225 
Nightingale  near  the  House, 

The,  145 
Nightingales  7 
Nod,  109 
NOYES,   ALFRED,  xxiii,   150-162 

Oaks  of  Glencree,  To  the,  96 
Ode,  8 

Ode  in  May,  28 
Old  Ships,  The,  178 
Old  Song  Resung,  An,  55 
Old  Susan,  108 
Old  Woman,  The,  166 
Old  Woman  of  the  Roads,  An, 
164 


Olivia,    To,   34 
One  in  Bedlam,  To,  74 
O'NEILL,   MOIRA,   xvii,    99-100 
O'SHAUGHNESSY,    ARTHUR,    8-9 
O'SULLIVAN,    SEUMAS,    138-139 

Pater  of  the  Cannon,  The,  183 

People,  180 

PHILLIPS,  STEPHEN,  77-79 

Piano,  180 

Pinch  of  Salt,  A,  227 

Plougher  The,  162 

Praise,  139 

Prayer  in  Darkness,  A,  118 

Preexist  ence,  184 

Prelude,  120 

Prelude,  216 

Progress,  221 

Reality,   186 

Rear-Guard,  The,  190 

Reciprocity,  170 

Regret,  70 

Requiem,  16 

Requiescat,  20 

Return,  The,  61 

Reveille,   36 

Romance,  15 

Romance,  210 

Rounding  the  Horn,  128 

RUSSELL,     GEORGE     W.,     (j*£ 

"A  £.") 
Rustic  Song,  A,  92 

SASSOON,  SIEGFRIED,  xxiii,  187- 

193,  225 

SEAMAN,  OWEN,  45-48 
Sea-Fever,  127 
SHANKS,  EDWARD,  219-220 
SHARP,    WILLIAM    (see    Fiona 

MacLeod) 
SHAW,  G.  B.,  20,  83 
Sheep  and  Lambs,  43 
Shell,  The,  167 
Shervjood,  151 
Sight,  124 


233 


Index 


Silence  Sings,  82 
Singer,  The,  186 
SITWELL,  EDITH,  206-207 

SlTWELL,  OSBERT,  22O-222 

Soldier,  The,  200 

Song,  31 

Song,  187 

Song,  A,  79 

Song  (from  "Judith"},  176 

Song  of  the  Old  Mother,  The, 

Songs    from    an    Evil    Wood, 

133 

Sonnet,  132 
SORLEY,     CHARLES    HAMILTON, 

223-225 

South  Country,  The,  87 
Spires  of  Oxford,  The,  203 
Sportsmen  in  Paradise,  209 
SQUIRE,  J.  C.,  xxiv,  172-174 
STEPHENS,    JAMES,    xxiii,    167- 

169 

STEVENSON,  R.  L.,  xvi,  13-16 
Stone  The,  121 
Stone  Trees,  181 
Strange  Meetings,  149 
Summer  Sun,  13 
SYMONS,  ARTHUR,  xv,  50-51 
SYNGE,    J.    M.,    xviii-xx,    xxii, 

93-96 

Tall  Nettles,  137 
TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  xii,  49 
"  There  Shall    be   more  Joy" 

104 

THOMAS,  EDWARD,  136-138 
Thomas  of  the  Light  Heart,  47 
THOMPSON,  FRANCIS,  31-35 
Thrush  before  Dawn,  A,  16 
Thrushes,  191 
Time,    You    old    Gipsy    Man, 

142 
Tired  Timt  108 


To   The  Four  Courts,  Please, 

169 

Town  Window,  A,  170 
Translation  from  Petrarch,  A, 

96 

TUPPER,  MARTIN  F.,  xii 
TURNER,  W.  J.,  210-211 
Two  Sonnets,  223 
TYNAN,     KATHARINE     (HINK- 

SON),  xvii,  43-45 

Unknown  God,  The,  77 

Valley  of  Silence,  The,  18 
"  Vashti,"  From,  175 
VICTORIANS,  THE,  xi-xiii,  xx 
Victory,  To,  189 
Villain,  The,  85 
Vision,  The,  19 

Walls,  99 

WATSON,  WILLIAM,  27-31 

Waves  of  Breffny,  The,  98 

Web  of  Eros,  The,  206 

What    Tomas   an   Buile   Said, 

168 
When       I       Was       One-and- 

Twenty,    37 

WICKHAM,  ANNA,  186-187 
WILDE,    OSCAR,   xiii-xv,    19-22, 

68 

WILLIAMS,   HAROLD,  xviii,   105 
WILSON,  T.  P.  C.,  209 
Winter  Nightfall  5 
Winter-Time,  14 
With  Rue  my  Heart  is  Laden, 

38 

YEATS,    W.    B.,    xvi,    xvii-xix, 

52-56,  94 

YOUNG,  FRANCIS  BRETT,  204 
You  Would  Have  Understood 

Me,  75 


234 


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